I've never been one for verse.
I can read the words
And feel its breath on my lips
But simple appreciation is my curse.
My pulpy anvil and inky hammer exist
Today for utility
To wright thoughts and ideas
And words unfit to be kissed.
No art will trail from these midnight lines.
No singularity, concise and tact
Will be birthed on this page.
Instead it might only rhyme.
Perhaps, I'll learn in time.
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