not a single worthy testament
to capture another's wandering heart
no words flourished enough
out of an impotent mind
no verse borne out of
beautiful musings or daydreams
pretentious thoughts
impregnate my journals
malicious intentions for
an insignificant other keep me fertile
this hand that pushes this pen
pulls me to proliferate stale truths
putting it all out in the open
has never been my literary style
i'd rather thrive on rotten mushrooms
anchovy and strawberry cream pie
than to let you all in and judge me
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