Aug 312011

Once upon a time, I had bruised slightly
My fingerend in tying unneedful knots 
Too brutally. The knots were sonnets, 
Rhyming not gracefully, losing bout by bout
Despite my careful tying. I had not 
Thought writing was so much like fighting. 
I stayed at it relentlessly tying tying tying 
Every musing, bruising blossom stylistically.
The daisy-chain was for no one particularly
(Or perhaps I am lying). You know how things get tangly 
When we practice firstly.... The lengthening string 
Of words got too stringy and self-involved in singing
That should have taken flight more singly by whistling 
Unconcernedly and not too self-consciously. 

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