…
Each poem that i write
only takes a wondering minute
that most probably explains
why they are so rubbish
i have to jot them down in haste
from a far off distant place
before i once again dissociate myself
from these keen perceptions
i do not fully understand
no trial and error
just errors recurring
curdling distaste
type in the secluded moments
then throw me under
each thought process train
no process to navigate
through such blind sided haze
a shield, a ghost
the daggers on Hell’s gate
fumble in the groans of my head
concentration a sickly block
snatched moans of time
seeking to find the treasure
in this crazy maze
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