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Pen in my hand,

words in my heart.

A glimmer of love,

And dust of hope.

In white sheets, I write.

A poem not as lovely as a tree.

A line about love.

A stanza about none.

What shall I write?

My words do not rhyme.

Bulb lights appear,

But none still matter.

I wrote a poem,

just to acknowledge that I write.