writing about writing

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I wander a street, Admiring the buildings to either side. A diverse collection of history In two-by-fours and I-beams.  
If I could I would write novels about this black hole in my head  about how it manages to twist every horrid thing into poetic drops of pain.   Damn, even that makes it seem better  
Like a garden words form, and the weeds are overtaking but through the soil, a "yes" is finally breaking.
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