Crafting
The poem rattles me awake
in the small hours of the night,
an insistent pang in my ribs
and behind my lungs.
It presses against my temples
and tries to bleed out through pores too small.
The poem knows not of physical law,
and cares not for my desire to just sleep.
'Confess!' it screams.
'Exalt!' is urges.
It tears the worst of me from my memories
and strips the best intentions from what I suppose to be.
The poem is heavy on my back
and it sets me free.
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