A new smell, it’s not my own
It feels odd to be in a place
So familiar but I am leaving it
The feelings of anxiety and panic
Should be imminent but they appear
Repressed. instead being here
I am wrapped up in comfort and ease.
I have not written anything worth
Anything in some time yet I try.
And for what? The comfort of words,
I suppose. They are constant and
Give me the feeling that as long as
I can keep them flowing I will be okay.
Writing as if speaking is the oddest
Form I have discovered yet, however
When here it is difficult not to speak
To my hands as they type so effortlessly
And excitable by a new word or witty phrase.
Enjoying these small moments of
Personal time to accomplish anything
And nothing at the same time are
Probably the best moments I can live.
This is less a poem than a personal
Conversation setup as some type of poem,
Which I probably made up anyway.
Whoever said writing has style and rules
is a shame to overall human creativity.
However, maybe I’m wrong and this is shit.
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