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Will I ever commit to writing? 

Let my skills go to waste,

Continue working this 9-5,

Which I hate,

Let slip this love for words, thrown together in mind scattered haste?

Forget all the books I read,

Lives I have lived,

Lessons I have learned

Will I ever commit to myself?

Maybe I should die writing this,

It’d be more poetic than these lines

A lost poet, who knows not himself 

Mid-stroke, his heart gave out,

He loved too much, he’d seen enough.

Is that really all I am?

All I’m supposed to be?

Owned by lover’s rage,

He could never fill a page,

My long-gone papa,

Has he been watching me,

On a big screen TV,

Like I thought when I was three?

Does my mind rest with his?

Is he out there, all alone?

Did I consume his soul,

My bones feel so old

Do we really walk alone,

Stone bones, would we ever know?

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