The Reflection

Contrived lines leave splinters in my brain— Stabbing and bruising my sick and sore mind. Mimicry makes me no artist—though I still Seek out bewitching prose that might describe The flawed loveliness which is this world. Soft sentences are alike to pillows I lie my head upon at night—and in My slumber I dream of fiery poesy. But these are borrowed words—and I reflect nothing in the mirror—for I do not exist.