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And your work is good for you
And your drive is good for you
And your loss is good for you

Go crazy.
Implode.

This is your life now.
Sleep thick pages,
The lines are like scars

This is where I resisted
Through poetry
All that empty space
I could have filled

With books,
The stories in my father’s basement
Soaked in earth and fluids
A small notebook
Dried in the sun

It is easier to forget
All my fictions,
Remember only pieces
A smell
A color
A taste
Absorb them

Like my mother’s feet, pacing
Marborlo lights and pepsi cans
Squares of green carpet
Fire pits and the smell of deet

All those half-finished projects,
Little myths, self-assured realities

I am bitter that I have no tragedy,
Just a shattering, a string of possible
Maybes, what-ifs, of
Could-have-beens and near truths
To bend against the past –

My own indecision.

Cover it in paint and tile
In eloquent metaphors and tropes,
Plot twists – my impossible poetry.

Tell my mother,
I am not a poet.
I am a liar.

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