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wishing my words could dance

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my attempt at perfectionism

emptied my appetite for the pizza

they give us afterward


the microphone in the library

that echoes my words

is as hungry for control as i am


my forever craving for the lines

i wish i could’ve wrote


the microphone

i like to blame

for my skipping of syllables--

not quite filling the silence

the other poets leave for me


it’s okay because they don’t have high expectations,

i tell myself


but when i finally make sense

of the whispers that can’t reach

my voice and pencil clearly


i spit them out in chunks

of too quiet and too fast

that don’t match the letters

twirling in my head


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