The best poems
are forgotten
before they're
ever written
.
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.
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.
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I crawled out of bed
with the memory
of two vague
masterpieces
lost in the
untraceable steps
of a dream´s
footprints
between
the snap
of a finger
and an evanescent
woebegone morning
Fragments of sweat-stained air
guitar strings notebooks
and prose-like voices
choking every last person
as it bled and squeezed
through every swirling nook
Now as the sun rises
I reach for you frantically
somewhere within an arms length
of my out-stretched hands
in the abstract illusion
driving me forward
But I fall back into
a purple silken pillow
with a throat full of cotton
a headache, resigned pain
pulsing through my veins
and the epitaph
of two lost poems
that made me
think about you
That provokes me to
spit lyrical theories
mystical words
and unwritten destinies
By Samantha Campbell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem