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The day I became a poet was a sunny day of no particular ominousness. I was scuttling along in my usual furtive way, suspecting no ill, when a large invisible thumb descended from the sky and pressed down on the top of my head. A poem formed. It was quite a gloomy poem: the poems of the young usually are. It was a gift, this poem – a gift from an anonymous donor, and, as such, both exciting and sisnister at the same time.

(Margaret Atwood, lecture on poetry writing)




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Monday, September 20, 2004
prose
i think i will write in straight sentences and blocks of paragraphs right now i don't feel safe with the broken structure of verses at this moment i need a warm hug without worrying if it's time to let go and if i can hang on to it forever much like the first time i fell in love it felt like i could fall for all time until i crashed to the ground and i could still taste the dirt in my mouth and it wasn't sweet or salty like  the water out of my eyes i'm drowning in and i keep on sinking ogodidon'tknowwhatishoulddoanymore

Posted at 05:32 pm by peaches

 

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