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A Young Writer Waits For Spring

My field of good-nature is gone, chopped away

into memory. I try to make saplings from stumps

but this part of me is stubborn– won’t grow

back like gnawed nails on the twisted fingers

that snub out my ninth cigarette.

Head in the toilet, I come face to face

with how far I’ve fallen. This isn’t the pain

that sprouts great art. I wipe vomit from my mouth

and dig deeper in search of seedlings hidden

in this blank page. Finding them isn’t easy,

a broken cuticle scab stains the paper before the pen.

Though my words don’t flow like blood

down the hand, I persist, driven by visions

of my own vernal rebirth. Most days,

this dream is all I am.

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