critical.
I’ve been given no choices, yet, I still must choose.
Though there is no contest here, apparently I lose.
Twisting my thoughts until they’re black and blue.
Damn perfectionist, I was never good for you.
critical.
I’ve been given no choices, yet, I still must choose.
Though there is no contest here, apparently I lose.
Twisting my thoughts until they’re black and blue.
Damn perfectionist, I was never good for you.
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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