His hands close round my words... Constricting my thoughts... Provoking an outburst of rebellion I poke fun at the illiterate literate... A monster trapping diction... in hallow sonorous laws... like LOUD capital letters... I spit at his fancy. I have no proclivity toward narrow minded tantrums. yet I love the words quite literally that take the fancy of my pen... And should I write thusly I'd find that I had bent... and I am no longer the author of the poem? I have spit out refuse... Some dialect for him to praise. Some worthy trash for which I'm scathing... uninnocence... bereft of my living... my soul |
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January 27
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