The poetess in her silk nightdress
wanders the halls in insomnia
reading, writing, pacing
the room filled with smoke
clouding the words in her mind
she blows them out in rings
then scoops them out of the air
sorting them out on the lace tablecloth
keeping some... recycling others
eating some for nourishment
confusion spills over the pages
don't make it too sweet
or it will be sticky
not too sour or it will be bitchy
the right combination
turns it bittersweet like memories
the clock ticks the hours by
she knows she should sleep
but it, like the right words
eludes her...
screwing up her life with symbols
she writes herself awake
in the morning...
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