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If We Counted

Kara Fusaro


How many possible lines

Can I write about sadness?

How many unceasing times

Until I lose this overbearing madness?

First, I lose my ability to smile.

Then, my heart inside dies a little.

Next, I bleed and flow –

Or do I use my imagination?

Perhaps let myself stumble out

Of the 8th floor window.

Typical, done before, cliché.

Maybe writing isn’t my calling.

I’ll skip to the steeple and pray

Or burn in hell, come back crawling.

“What happened kid?

You didn’t enjoy your stay?”

But this time, I find a solution.

An answer that will make so much sense.

Don’t condemn my disillusions,

But what if I try and choose

A life that feels less like pollution?

If I jump and fly –

Would that be viable absolution?


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