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Sisyphus I fear that I shall never see A story written easily. I think and plot with all my might, Then tear it up. It's just not right. I work and toil and write again. It's almost done. I read it, then It's thrown away. It's just too bad For you to read. And now I'm mad! I force myself to find a way To say the things I want to say: How much I love and hate and see, And what I think you think of me. About how sad I am at times, And what I hear from glass wind chimes. About my mother? maybe yours. And how the wind howls when it pours The rain that cleanses sins and fears. The way we wash our dreams with tears. Once all is said, I'm oh! so proud And I come here to read aloud These inner secrets of my soul. My job is done. I've reached my goal. But once I'm home, an empty page, The symbol of an author's cage, Becomes the cell wherein I wait For Muse once more to change my fate. I sigh. By now I know, you see, The story won't come easily.