The page awaits, too silent to forgive, Each empty line a dare I can’t defend. What if I write what shouldn’t even live? What if I start, and ruin where I end? A phrase begins — I edit while I write, Then stop, and stare, and scroll, and check the time. The sentence fights its own pathetic fight, Too scared to be too dull, too sharp, too prime. I think of all the better things I’ve m...

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