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all my poetry

my poetry sets me back
into my compulsions
deep within the womb of my mystery
into the envelope of my hidden life
a perilous journey but
the music much sought-after
and much maligned

a recycled second-guessing
of ever-clichéd attitudes
wrapped into a trimmer form
of expression
drawn up into a piece
of my very flesh

draw then my words
spread my blood and bones
across this surgeon’s table
then wash it down and prepare
for the next patient

my poetry lies unknown
to me still
can you know
me better?

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