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Finished the last stanza of my bop in the backseat of the car. I feel some type of way about the poem. I can't tell if I like this bop, though I do like pieces of it. Seems like the three parts aren't married to each other...I need another set of eyes to look at it.
Here's a piece of it:
(no title yet)
ideas bubble and surface
easily at the beginning
cursive lead slides across
the page, filling in
the white spaces...but
where does creativity go?
since you went away i just
look into all other faces with no trust
The refrain comes from Maxwell:
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