Sometimes I have to really work through this
When I'm not in the mood, it's not easy
I always feel there's something that I'll miss
Or fear my syllables be wrong or cheesy.
And when I feel it's pointless then I don't
Know why I really bother anyway,
It's like I want to stop but know I won't
No matter how depressed I am today.
The sonnets I have written form a line
That I refuse to break until I'm dead
And just by doing this I build a shrine
Between what's still to come and what's been said.
So even when I can't really engage,
I find my pen still floats across the page.
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