One-forty syllables are still to come
I wait and see which words appear inside
And hold my pen between my fingered thumb
And wait for them across the page to glide.
It's now a bit like when I go to sleep
Or when I wake up, somehow what I do
It used to be a hill that was so steep
But now it's like a hole I'm falling through.
There's nothing I can do to stop today
Though perfection is quite improbable
Some good some bad I write them anyway
To not do it is past impossible.
So every day I delve into the mines
And dig out yet another fourteen lines.
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