emotions spit upon the page beneith the ink i see them dry they glare at me and curl around awaiting prey, impatient draughts were i to warn or eat them back would you still see, or look away? for empty words lay flat and still they give no taste of joy or pain so, i shall leave them coiling here and you shall see, or find them not but year by year they'll stay inside for age is naught to liquid thought

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"this is one of my favorites, it speaks to the essence of (some, good) poems."