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We pour out our hearts, sometimes we feel better
With every single word, with every solitary letter

Written from the soul, a place we hold sacred
Baring the hidden, we’re stripped down and naked

Others may find us a little bit quirky
They can’t figure us out, it’s all a bit murky

Yet, we are not here to be figured at all
We write with our blood, the ink, alcohol

Not the kind from a bottle, though it might surely help
The kind you won’t find, on anyone’s shelf

It flows through our veins, like the rapids, it seeks
Unsuspecting, our readers, those that we may bespeak

And they who have found us, await us again
They keep coming back, no they dare not refrain

From reading the page with the words, yes, our verse
These poems we write, they’re our glory, our curse


©Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved
Photo via Pixabay CC0