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I RUINED MANY POEMS

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I ruined many poems, writing to you,

pathetically trying to win you back

with bitterness and anger, enough

to ruin my social reputation, too.

The bounty sours, excess now a lack.

I know singers have that happy era,

young, writing song after amazing song;

but the personality in the spotlight unravels,

too much becomes known, and talent dies

in the face of accusation, as wrong fails to overcome wrong.

Wrong vibrates with wrong—he tries

to capture innocence. You can’t capture innocence;

it just is. A new smile now makes us wince.

This happened to me. A poet will control

everything. The part gathers to a whole.

It only takes one line to betray

my cowardly actions today,

the sneer, the fat, rotting soul.

What happened to our love?

Was it artificial from the start? Was it never meant to be?

Did it—did it—ruin every last piece of our integrity?

Last night you let train after train pass by

remaining in a dark corner of the station to cry.

But today you are fine. You smile

at my poems, rotting in their sentiment and style.


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