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some days i look back on my drafts,
twenty-six of them messily piled,
all untitled,
contents swirling around me in nostalgic confusion
before settling down in the middle of a storm
teenage angst bleeding through the pages
of half-written manuscripts and abandoned poems,
saved until a later date
but never finished

i was looking at my drafts today. oof, i remember exactly what i was feeling when i wrote each of the unfinished pieces.


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