waiting for that future
me that will sit down and write something extra
ordinary, incandescent
knowing that these days
the screen glitters with other words, some mine,
only flickering
do I have to read poems every day to write poems every day
or even some days?
some day?
who is this me, what is this protocol of producing
viable words, and what is their connection?
i used to be satisfied with writing what occurred
to me, but that was an earlier, younger me
a different holder of the theoretical pen
whose cadences and swirls of text
painted pain and love and sex.
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