Ever do I seek to simply
Sit with pen in hand and page
In front of me
Using the former to fill the latter
And get the things out of my head that well up within

It is not water that comes from that spring
Dripping sometimes but flooding in season
Nor yet does it leach away whence it flows
Or, at least, it does not so in a way anyone knows
For who remarks on one more hole in
A thing already spongelike?

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