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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Poetic Dreamers

Thoughts on time spent writing and in the creative process.

Submitted: August 29, 2018

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Submitted: August 29, 2018



O this little book of mine,

Riddled by thin, college-ruled lines,

Half full up of swill,

Methinks it’s reached its time.

The binding is now not quite bound,

Like a dissonant note

Without the tonic sound.

Coffee stains autumn on the crisp leaflets;

My yellow paper browns.

Yet half this book remains untouched,

Not by pen, not by autumn’s rosey blush.

I wonder if some swill that lives there still,

Will listen for my call,

And fall fluttering down.



Once was a boy who ate worms, named Burt

They were a wriggly, juicy dessert

They tasted like fries

But he was surprised

When he grew old he pooped only dirt

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