Poetic thought of the day: Some poems are the receipt of a revelation. Others are the scratch pads set to meter. And others are pay stubs left open on the kitchen table.
Oh, ffffffffffacts
What would we do,
Where would we go?
I had to once
But I didn't
So
I'm not.
Fortunately it wasn't
specific
enough, So
nobody
could tell The Difference
And I didn't tell
The Difference
So here I am again
(On paper)
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