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I sit on my hard black chair topped with a travel zafu, multicolored with deep rich rust, orange, and cream.
The blank lined page in my eco-friendly, purple spiral notebook, remains empty.
Such is the curse of a writer, yet also a blessing.
Pen to paper, just write. Without a thought, sans a lift of the pen—just write.
The dam breaks in my grey matter, loosening trapped past, present, and future musings.
Garbage litters the page. Just write.
A poem emerges from tossed-out trash:
And my knife cuts the cord
It wraps me in a warm green blanket
It unwraps me from my past
Words ignite the fire, the Agni
In my solar plexus
And pours cool water on my frazzled mind.
I close the cover on the notebook, place my pen on top, and rest my eyes. Tomorrow, I will return, refreshed.
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