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Too Busy

There is a point
When my mind fills
And begins to quietly break open
Under pressure. Small holes appear
Where words and lists slip
Out and disappear forever
I’ll never know what becomes of
Them, my babies
But this talent of the brain, to
Become a sieve
Leaking away what it can’t hold
Relieves the pressure
So, despite all that’s lost,
there’s space now for light to shine
Into all those cracked open bits.

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The Sketchbook


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