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Today my poem will not have a title.

Ophelia's picture

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.

 

 

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