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crap-draft poetry.

Well, I’ve created.

I’ve been beating myself up for a very long time – for months and months, practically, for not being very creative.

And I have done it.

I would like to attribute this to David Bowie’s sad and untimely death, because he was the ultimate of Artistic Creators, a man who was a chameleon and a pioneer, someone who didn’t give a rat’s ass if you liked his newest look or endeavor because his newest look or endeavor was never about you to begin with; it was about David Bowie.

But sadly, I cannot say this, because I started this poem about a week ago. It is still in crap-draft form, but less crap than a week ago.

At any rate, you can read my crap-draft poetry HERE.

(This Monday was lovely, I have to say. Freaking cold, but really lovely. I got to sit and talk to a colleague today after school, and I really think she’s kind of the bomb now and I kind of respect her a lot more.)

I like it when stuff like that happens, for no real reason.

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