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Scattered scraps of stories,

Tinted tithes of tales.

Half-formed paper lives,

Fiction flights and flails.

Shreds of sweeping stanzas,

Tears of patchy passion.

Torn and stapled sagas,

Scripts sit blurred and ashen.

Loosely draped précis,

Themes almost addressed.

Hordes of pushy prose –

Ambiguous when pressed.

Sketched out personalities,

Characters barely there.

Histories scantily dressed,

The demanding prose declares;

Write me.

Write me.

Right me.

WRITE ME.

 

They cry.

And sometimes…

 

I do.

Too.

 

 

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