A snail came to me in a fever dream
He confirmed my suspicion
That the poetry I've been writing for months
May not be poetry at all
He force-fed me format that I like to remain ignorant to
But I'll be good and try some
Be wary of my own lethargy and sloth
Since I began doubting anyways
And the change I'm soon to perform
May as well be accompanied by other transformations
I adore poetry
And I ought to represent her in a becoming way
Since I've taken advantage of holding her hand
I believe I ought to owe her
So I ought to attempt some experiments
Or at least dance to some rhythm as opposed to flinging aimlessly
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