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Childhood/lum
 
The poetry of the time reveals
a peculiar intolerance to reality
as if all the eggshells 
could fit neatly under one foot.
Carrying around my imagination, like a naughty naughty foetus,
kicking deep inside, to touch is to feel,
but
the painful birth
is disappointing, my expectations bestowed
are multiple in offence, any development is arrested.