IN SOME WAYS
Some days I do nothing at all.
It's easy; all this writing and
turmoil brings a self-respite,
and I can still run away. To
sit about : peanut-butter walls
and a butterscotch ceiling too.
I might read a hundred books
of nothing this day, and yet, on
another, one massive great tome.
And walk away satisified and
beseeched. And. Never.
Leave. Home.
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