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Unrendered

It doesn’t have a start or an end— just the hum, the buzz of your brain in silence. Internal electricity. You try to catch it— like lightning, try to sculpt something: words, clay, paint on a stretcher canvas. But it doesn’t escape. The tight grip on your chest. Eyes behind eyes. Screens before mirrors before windows. The buzz in your head blending into the melody of fluorescent lights.
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The Accidental Muse

Poetry is a state which catches me off guard,
in some corner of time,
between the shadows of a slow Sunday
and the nameless light of an empty street.

It doesn't come from a book or from a dream;
it rather comes with the subtle echo of days
and the quiet touch of hours—
a way the universe might reveal somehow
in its nakedness, within its fissures.

a whisper of itself: of the invisible.

I don't know how I can express what I feel,
or how to name it.

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