anxiety and worry, Art, Blank Verse, current state, Emotional warfare, free verse, Life, pain and suffering, poetry, Portraits

As it ebbs,

As my word is a fallacy unto myself,

As my written hand never stops,

thus an outlet that becomes my character.

It isnt,

it became as my mantra,

it became a word from me of plural days,

that comes and goes,

and yes poets are of the sort,

sometimes but not as much. . .

Hypocrites of ourselves.

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