My Writing

It is the voice in your head

Some have given it a name: Conscience

but Mine screams and screams

Never turning off. 


And so I write to free

my cluttered mind to be

An empty and calm place

but not yet, Not

until my fingers dance. dance.


Across the keyboard. 

Now my mind begins to rest.

The poem has closed its breath.


This poem is about: 


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