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Would that my life were bound like a book
With pages of my hardships weighed and cold like lead
Blistering my cracked fingers in my attempts to divide them
And cut too quickly by pages of my apathy and excuses
Like fine parchment paper I could tear them out
And bind them in a chain around my worries.
A small piece of poetry to help settle my thoughts before bed, first thing I’ve written in a long time. Been reading too much John Keats.