Untitled (Like Everything Is)

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I find my poetry something awful,

if you can even call it that.


I read it back

over

and

over


and my stomach churns over each syllable; at the thought that I somehow found it worth writing down. My brow creases in the way I want the paper to but then


I tell myself

over

and

over


that it doesn't matter and it never matters because try all I want to convince myself that what I have on paper or screen is


absolutely.

Worthless.


At one moment it meant the world.

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