A poem has set
It's pace in me.
Finding a way out,
It's poking around.
It has sneaked in
Every corner.
And soaked in the
Biases I've breathed,
And the opinions
I've consumed,
It has made my
Blood thick.
Veins about to burst.
It's throbbing.
And before it's spilt,
And it's a mess.
Give me my pen.
Let me speak.
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