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Yellow Ball
Sometimes I throw around this yellow ball of question
I question if I should continue writing, continue to
Express my personality, point of view, freedom of speech
I feel like I should give up...maybe my work
isn't good enough, maybe I have nothing important
enough to say, maybe I wasn't meant to be a poetess
Wasn't created with a spoken word
It's not that I have nothing to say
Writing to me is like breathing, words don't stop
Exhaling and inhaling, the day I don't have words is
The day I die, I have so much to say
It's not that I don't want to write, it's just that
I don't think anyone wants to read what I write
I don't think I will ever be great and my mom
Will never be proud of me
But I do love writing, it's a part of me, like my
Bones are a part of me, my pen is a ligament
Well, I guess that answers the question
I pick up the yellow ball, throw it into the street, and
Watch a car roll over and burst it.
Pop!
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