The out pourings from a compulsive writer.A Poem by andrew mitchell
Come inside! You’ll find
a systemic verse on a drip, a stanza on a respirator, a sentence taking its medicine, and the poem having its pulse read where the vocabulary is pumped in by a syringe of pointless information. Yes, it’s damage control, a writer has gone mad, the poem is nearly dead, dying, and the blood that flows has stopped getting through. The poem’s pulse is weaker and yet the writer writes on in vain, hurriedly knowing the ink is low and the write must go on. © 2021 andrew mitchellReviews
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6 Reviews Added on February 4, 2021 Last Updated on February 4, 2021 Authorandrew mitchelladelaide, AustraliaAboutStrindberg said. " When I come home and sit at my writing table, then I live.... I live, and I live in manifold fashion of all human beings. I depict; I am glad with the glad, wicked with the wicked,.. more.. |

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