Sometimes I feel like all my poems are drafts. I rarely get to a point where I can say, this piece of writing is perfect, and I wont change it.
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Discontent
wildly grows
like flowers or a fire
into beauty
or death
new life
or destruction
Disbelief
stays still or stands up
is taken for truth
or known as a lie
Distance
spreads speedily
or is only short
is a big gap
or brings you closer
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