Insomnia

I have no desire to write poetry what’s up with that I always want to write poetry it’s like an asp sunk into my neck a pulse a quickening a thread of death I can’t stop pulling into me with every breath I’ve lost the storyteller’s march I mock I dally I linger with stomach pains in oh’s and art’s- the matter is heart I’m poisoned or venomed or ah heck I don’t want to write poetry.

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