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quiet, i’m writing,
cite, reciting,
massive passages,
excerpts excising.
once vigor, now rage,
it’s a war that i wage,
as i wrestle each thought
from my heart to the page.
but love for this beast,
this piece of me,
this script i’ve writ
descendant of keys.
the tap, tap, tap of
entering it into being
is the rush that i love
that keeps me reading-
and keeps me writing,
the inner critic fighting,
hoping in the fire, there’s
a phoenix rising.

-m.p. 07/15/15

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