There was once a time when I was booming with poetry.
It would suddenly fly from my.
It was a different sort of writing.
It was less analytical.
It was whimsical.
It embraced metaphor and it rarely made sense.
But it felt expressive in the strangest ways.
I would suddenly become this symbolic beast.
I would walk through dark homes.
And beasts would devour me alive.
I vowed to be weird and I let it happen.
I drank and I exploded.
Expression was particularized all the time.
I was ready to say everything without categorizing.
I was eager to press beyond labels.
And to understand myself in those ineffable and sublime ways.
I'm not quite sure what happened.
I lose myself in my analysis.
My categories swallow me up and I let them take me through them.
I wonder if this can signify a return to more particularized and metaphorical expression.
It feels like a step in the right direction.
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