A poet once said,
Never trust blood with,
traces of ink.
Never trust the hand,
that holds the pen.
Poets? We’re Liars.
Your Honour,
I’m guilty, I know.
My crime? Obsession.
I have a problem, I admit.
Everyone,
does.
How art thou so different from me?
Obsession is a ravishing,
hunt for satiation,
this adoration, you,
never got,
(Was I never enough?)
Obsession is a beautiful lad,
of 25,
Sharp claws,
(in hindsight)
that sucks out...
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