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I believe, wholeheartedly, the writer is but a makeshift way to live

I believe, wholeheartedly, the writer is but a makeshift way to live in some way not yet realized, but the words know, and they tell you where your mind may go, without so much as words being said, but known to/read, and through these lines I hope you see I’m here, I’m writing this and you’re taking time to change your world for me, if for a second, and I thank you, I thank you, I thank you for all you’ve done, as you’ve done everything hoped for, and nothing, nothing, nothing is as good as everything so long as nothing is seen to be and something’s left for you to prosper in me, and no, yes, maybe you’ll hold these, some words and ways, repeated, felt, but not released, except in form, as nothing, every/some and more follow some malignant path not seen, but all’s well and you’re now free, if for a moment, from the likes of me.

a stream from spout of wall, falling all to pool 'neath/'bove the cement
quickening now, the sidebar squints

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