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yours are theirs, and theirs aren't yours. and mine? they're theirs too.

it seems like most days,
i sit down at this same table,
open this moleskin,
and wait for the lines to write themselves.
I've all the words,
Nouns,
Verbs,
Adjectives,
The Fillers,
The Point.

what i'm missing is my memory,
the memory,
MY Memories.
a writer told me through a page of his,
not to try TOO hard, or, at all.
just let it build up,
let the fuse burn down and away.
then,
when it's full.
when the chemicals exchange.
the words will explode on the page.
and when the dust settles,
and when the dirt is finally out of your eyes.
THERE IT WILL BE!
like a dream you can't comprehend.
like a painting you've stared at for hours.

Their meaning may be lost,
but it's theirs.
just like,
these accumulation of words,
are mine.
Written by Harold-Weathervein (Levi Braathen)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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