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As for my poetry creation,
Friends like you are at its core.
When my mind is untenanted,
Words in succession rush and pour.
If I don’t string them in a verse,
Then my mind goes sore.
My limbs get benumbed,
As if the death knell’s at door.
I work to cure my ardour,
On these words more and more.
A piece of poem thus extrudes
And I get sound sleep with a snore.
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