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We’re all poets, but poetry is the worst part
Of ourselves: mawkish, declarative, the inner coming out like a fart.
Disgustingly clever, airy, vain,
Presuming to change the world, insane.
We’re all poets, but some are wise.
Poetry lives in the hatred of the poetry. In the eyes.
Poetry is her, whether she fails, succeeds, or tries.
