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Not Not Writing

If I swore an oath not to write,
If, by any chance, I consent,
To no longer inscribe,
I must have found a way to my heart.
A key to my chaotic head.
Or maybe,
I had just forfeited
To the wages against myself,
The battles roaming in my mind,
And the wars of my everyday strifes.

I’m agitated to write,
Yet in solicitude by not.
Rushed to spell it all.
At once, to say it all,
Yet contended to hide it
Altogether beneath the shawl.


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