I can’t say that I care too much for this curse, nothing but a hell on earth crux right now, the never-ending need to come back at them in penning the perfect poem
An endless line of wannabe poets nip at my heels, pin-pricked soldier toes, marching to the beat before I’ve even as much as begun, I would say rather jokingly that I might like to sedate them, to even out the playing field, but the fact of the matter is this, most of them are already that way, depression a dastardly thing indeed
Spoke to a poet the other day, told me that Durcan was a funky kind of elated who lost a life owing to his art, a particular need to come back at them in penning the perfect poem leaving him sad, anxious and, last but not least, sedated
I know what you’re thinking, where exactly is there any time left for him to be elated?

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