Staring at this blank page
assaults the senses,
so I throw down the letters
and stir them up
like alphabet soup,
and then I wait
with the spoon
as one by one
they pop back up
to the surface,
where I’ll scoop them up
then blow them off, cool,
before I swallow
them whole to digest,
whatever this is;
this constant, constant
until I find something
that makes sense out of
this; my inner turmoil,
that I so often wish
I could silence, but soup?
it will never be quiet.

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