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Poem by Mary Hobson
I hate this page. No black on white, no crossings out, not one scrawled word. It is demanding that I write, empty my head, release my rage, my love of the absurd, my grief. Well yes. It would be a relief. Something I need to do. A chore. Like clearing dead leaves from the overflow. But is it anything youТd like to know? Why should I empty it on you? ItТs all been said before.
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