Purpose for living

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The strokes of life burn within my paper Seeping through the lines Creating a sunder for the reaper Those creases in your brow
Struggling to be unique, Then in return I get critiqued, Thinking outside the box. But limited as the clock ticktocks. Trying to discover a better way, But your emotion is truly grey.
I am a writer.  Who is writing a poem. Words flow, but is a river made? A river flows but were any words made? I write and write and write and write But does that always mean I'm right?
I write to speak my mind. I write to keep my thoughts inside. I write to express. I write to impress. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write because I have to.
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