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There’s a thorn in my heart
that can’t be
accurately and absolutely
pulled out
by my skilled fingers

It embedded itself there
for no other purpose
but to disrupt my life

What I do is
spit out
pretending to be poems
in hopes that one of them
will finally dislodge the thorn
and rid me of this small but sharp burden
and let me be what I used to be:
fine, I was just fine

But I’m unsuccessful so far
and the longer the thorn stays,
the messier it gets

I write on

I have no one to command
but words
It is they that I have faith in
to purge me
of this inconvenience