This poem approaches the idea of the unique: when it comes to writing, some say that nothing is new. Everything has been written before, done before, copied before, tried before. I was once told that every poem is a copy, a reissuing, of a million before it. This can sometimes weigh a writer into a lack of motivation and inspiration.
nothing original;
everything done before.
these kisses,
her smile
like fakes on a dressing board.
sit for hours
and you still will come up with nothing
new.
those words,
these faces;
outlines on outlines
on templates,
made of space waste.
strands,
floating like hotels on super-speed highways,
sleeping in cars like i’m
not that into you.
dogs, rocks, billy,
that boy from down the street–
images are memories.
rebirth, rework,
rewrite, reform, re-form,
like recycling so we can reuse every syllable
that spilled from some role model
whose name slipped memory
like childhood crush.
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