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An empty page is torturous,
It stares and taunts my weakness
Of how I cannot write them down
Those thoughts that I possess
The poem taunts me too,
It tells me I can't do it
That I can never be profound
And put some rhyming to it
But does rhythm really matter?
Are the rhymes what makes the poem?
Are beauteous words what make the tale
Or is it that I know them?
And so I sit and write them down
And into words I try to squeeze
My tumbling thoughts that never rhyme
I'm limited, and tied, oh please
Just let me truly express myself
And let my words be true
But words themselves are holding me
To something less than what I knew
But here are some things I will say
And some things that I know are true
Words are never, ever perfect
--Love is something that you do

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