she wants to tell me something,
but doesn't
want to hurt my
feelings, she knows how
sensitive i am.
what is it? i ask.
go ahead and spit it out.
well,
she says, softly.
it's your writing, your
so called poetry.
it can be dark and maudlin
at times.
aren't you ever happy,
ever content?
you seem to dwell on the past
a lot.
i think you need to take
a break, and
refresh your thoughts.
i'm starving, i tell her.
have you had lunch yet?
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