I am not a poet.
Words fail me.
As I sit here, my thoughts scatter.
Blown to the four winds.
The page remains blank.
White.
Empty.
A void, waiting to be filled.
The act of creation is elusive.
Until, suddenly, like that, it isn’t.
Words flow.
The white page fills with black letters.
I read what I have written.
I am still not a poet.
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