Hung’ on the shelf

I’ve written you more letters than you’ll ever receive in your daily mail. Haven’t you thought of what I would have to say to this day? My poetic passion sprung out not from within thin air. It is you, the man who stirred me left round and right, left me sore. Tired from trying. Never had I ever been that way before. Rejected, chosen over, selfishly taken advantage of, asked to still remain. Listen to what I have to let you know, lean in close, take a seat as this may come as a heavy dose.

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