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Poetry comes from pain, this is something we all know. Don’t tell me there are lots of poems about beautiful things and love, because the only people who really turn those things into pure magic on paper are the ones who were aching before they found them. Poetry comes from being submerged, the shuddering gasp as you break the surface. Maybe you go under again, maybe you don’t. Who knows how long you’ll be lost before you can write again. Some people spend their whole lives down there, surfacing like whales. I’m sure Charles Bukowski was a whale.

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