untitled 4, or 5, or 6

you know I’ve said I can’t express

in lines, what shuttles up inside

and why, I couldn’t say although

it’s true I thrive on pain

 

and know that if you wanted it,

I’d write three times as much

as this, a poem every day:

three hundred failed attempts

to say how much I love you

 

and if it should transpire that

I never could inspire all that

awful glowing feeling back

it matters just as much as this –

a glitch, but it exists

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