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Some days it starts like a little tickle
right under the nose-
a bit of an itch, wrinkled, rubbed
yet building uncontrolled
to a point of release that
explodes in a sneeze into a sleeve.
It feels so much better afterward
though a tissue would have helped
to catch it before tossing.
Some days it is a sense of being off,
a little dizzy, maybe queasy,
wishing it away only makes it
more miserably inevitable,
gagging in building anticipation
before it has to be let go
in a flood of relief,
flushed quickly
without looking to be gone forever.
Some days it is the tiniest flutter
felt deep within, at first almost not there
but slowly growing, changing,
building cell by cell,
knitted in secret,
each part laid down exactly
where it is meant to be,
created perfectly, beautifully,
uniquely.
Until the day when a twinge
becomes sharp, the pressure
builds to aching recognition,
there is no stopping the push,
not tears nor cries of anguish
can halt the progress to
the light of a new day,
breathing fresh air, softly wrapped
to the sweet music of words.
A poem is born.
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