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Writing at the Centre
I’d Thought the Words Might Come Streaming Out
but no, just a few, precious few –
like drops from an almost dry sponge, or sparks from a half-extinguished fire.
Words on that perilous journey from heart and brain to pen.
Or impacted in the body.
Words assembling themselves in a small way.
The pain of Broadmoor, a third of my life. Or Dad, why did you kill yourself?