death of a poet:
i used to have words itching to come crawling out of my fingers. they used to flow out and attach to the page crawling over eachother and rearranging themselves into looping lines on the page burrowing down exactly how i intended. but i forgot to write and in their anticipation they latched to the back of my eyes and burrowed through my pupils ate holes in my brain and laid hatched i let out five at a time. now through pain i write half dead, half five, alive i write. bored through and in peices, i write. alive and bright i write not moth eaten poems holes in words i puncture myself. remain unwritten, i labour.
[unpublished]
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