Robbing Peter to pay Paul, and making
Each little word and every single rhyme
A muscle torn, reused and ever-aching.
Imagine that the time ahead of me
Were smooth and open, free to fill at leisure:
Impossible the possibility
And endless the end-stopped, creative pleasure.
But it has not been so, will not be either;
I cannot count on time to while away.
I am a child teething without teether
Gnawing my knuckle bloody to allay
The pain of what is rising from below
And has no patience as it strives to grow.
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