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Why Do You Write?
There it was on the mahogany table -
Pieces of me scribbled on faded yellow
She called it a poem as she sipped
her coffee
I laughed and said it was pretty
crappy to be
called a poem
But I was ninety-nine times lighter
and the
voices I befriended in misery,
they were all quiet – something
I hadn’t quite felt in ages
I thought as I looked at it;
A little less in disgust
And more in acceptance this time
© the.misfits
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