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you fear that you can't do it all, & you're right

even day takes relief every day from its work making light from the night

goldmine gutted
15 February
I hide behind these books I read,
while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve,
and I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me;
and everything I've made is trite and cheap
and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.