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Today my poem will not have a title.
Today it rained.
Today my poetry will not rhyme.
Today I am sick of love songs and sick of you.
Today I hate everything I write.
This is the first thing I've written that hasn't been deleted into oblivion.
Today my poem will not have a title.
Today is ending.
I wish it wouldn't. Tomorrow tastes sour.
- Ophelia's blog
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