I sit down thinking
Many a times
What would happen
If my thoughts blank out,
Muscles refuse to work
And the pen refuses to write,

I would then write nothing,
No story, no article, no poem
The mobs will then write an epitaph
As for them, I'd be happily dead
Silenced for good, full and final
By the silent cacophony

They don't realise, however,
That if I speak, I shall
Surely open t...

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