Not like the others

What happens when you can’t finish a poem? When it’s not like the others? When it doesn’t know what it wants or how to be? When you feel tired even feeling one of the words, the same line you’ve been staring at for a month and it’s lost all meaning? Was it not supposed to be written? Is it as disappointed in you as you are in it? Is it better to mourn the dead or to keep pumping breath in to it?

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