(in response to one of her poems)
all I do serves a purpose,
to inspire love or faith,
a scrounger, a miser,
a pathetic man
too scared to admit
what I feel
passing judgement
as other pass
judgement on me.
The art is in the sleight of hand,
The devious shell game
Under which cub
Does my real feelings fall.
All is lost in translation,
the real meaning,
the sense of faith,
the last fatal
stumbling step
heavy cross on my back,
sentenced and condemned,
but not at all innocent
I am a poem and poet.
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