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I wanted so badly to write a poem today,


                  wanted to create, to put physical boundaries on my thoughts by setting them free. But my thoughts weren’t ready to be examined and my page remained wordless, stale, because if it’s not brilliant, I don’t want to write it, reminding me how young an aspiring poet I still am:

                               I haven’t overthrown the notion that poetry is about me. I forget that poetry [all writing] demands the humility to admit that you never get it right the first time, that you must return with the intent to change before coming close.