A poem is like two aspirin
They either work
Or they don't
To relieve the pain
Screeching down your leg
It's meant to be medicinal
To calm the throbbing thirst
For something real but beautiful
Or else it never makes it there
Too long looked back on
So it falls into the shades
We must suffer the poem
If it will do some good
The poem of pain there
Hanging from the wood
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