Writerly

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I’ve got this thing
I do late at night—


Write


Whatever my heart
Sings—

Even melodies
Of pain for you.


So, forgive me, Love,
The places I go
You can’t come…

But if you did
You’d run—

Be frightened terribly.

And I’d grieve
What you found in of me.



© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved



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