To the Poet:

Liar

Sorrow is not blue

but white hot eternal,

you liar.

you bastard.

You had me looking the other way,

and I missed it as it crept inside me

and made a home there.

You wretch,

If I could lean to hate you,

maybe I could manage to love myself.

 

Roses are not red,

you certain thorn,

you ugly charlatan,

Roses are not red,

but are dead,

empty,

bereft,

the water has soured.

You scourge,

you filthy and weak thing.

If I could learn to kill you,

maybe I could manage to come alive.

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