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I Write Poetry

A poetic spirit takes possession of me,
This pen and paper my salvation,
It's magic allows me to exercise the demons.
Yet finding the perfect text is key,
The right words,
Proper verses,
Correct incantations,
Specific composition,
Appropriate lyricisms,
Precisely metered stanzas.
Without these, I am left scraping, scratching, clawing at my skull in my attempts to free myself from its grasp.
Yet it's a hopeless act, my cries for release are in vain, left echoing forever in the emptiness.
This entity has taken root, burrowed deep under my skin, sunk its teeth in and coiled around my soul.
I pick and peck at pieces, digging at it insatiably as one does to a splinter.
Over time my raw bloodied wound begins to fester, and the infection spreads through my veins.
I attempt to emancipate myself from the confining rhymes and prose, that like a storm rage and swarm through my mind.
Somewhere between silence and static I'm stuck sifting through the chaos searching for peace and seeking redemption.
SW-User
Somewhere between silence and static I'm stuck sifting through the chaos searching for peace and seeking redemption.

 
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