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I
cannot stop the need to express or to use bigger paper. Jenny and Ian
Seymour are good but my scope is larger - the increasing urbanism of
Matangi only stifles. If only there was a career in thinking, understanding
Knopfler, singing along with Dylan, dreaming beauty - I am born for
it, that is where I will rock this world. Channelling is the verb I
have trouble with, redirecting my calling into something of use while
still recognising the uselessness of poetry. Where is my platter? The
podium I have been so long promised? When will God let me know? This
is the worst decision, one slip could misery my life forever, can any
amount of Romeos remedy a 40 hour week of pain? I want to please, to
humour but it is all so SERIOUS nobody wants to know that side of me
they will not UNDERSTAND this no matter how simply I out it to them
the whole scheme of my life is too complex to offer to anyone - you
have no idea how lonely that makes me feel. No wonder poets die young
there isn't a like-minded soul in sight, I feel like giving up already
and I KNOW they want me to be a doctor or lawyer and through all their
smiles they are so disappointed I didn't work it out myself, sooner
or later they will have to tell me. How will I live that I know not,
ignorance likely, and die in my own pit of still waiting for the right
answer
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