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I was boxing up a bunch of books, movies and papers because I’m moving in the coming weeks and behind an old dresser of mine, tucked between the drawers, I came across a folded up piece of paper. On it, there were poems. One was incoherent as to what I was going for with it, three were too atrocious to reprint and then there is this one. I thought it was worth sharing. It’s a piece of found poetry, which means, I went around my local college campus and picked random phrases and words and then used those phrases and words to try to make a coherent poem. Here it is:

Running

I’ve been chased from my home

by the father with the flu;

by her.

It was going to be a special night.

 

Running from the location.

Running from the battle.

Running from the enigma.

 

Recovering from the damage,

searching for my character,

waiting for my name.

 

Back to the top…

 

I’ve been chased from my home

by the father with the flu;

by her.

It was going to be a special night.

 

Running to forget the purpose of being.

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