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and a thousand other missing poems

sublimation is a dangerous thing. one could far too easily parlay the pointless into something with an end.

In asking myself, "what shut me down?",
I realize, "was I ever open?"
except in the times when I tore myself in two,
so rough, I can't remember.

And I ask, "where does your soul bleed now?'
how many things I left behind that seemed never quite mine.
Not in a way that must be put in proper places or proper times,
but, in all rawness and inconvenience,
bleed the beauty of whats real.
by necessity,
could ruin everything.

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