Autopsychography

The poet is a faker.

Pretends so completely
That comes to pretend that is pain 
The pain that he really feels.


And those who read what he writes,
In the pain read they feel right ,
Not the two that he had,
But only the one which they have not.


And so on the wheel rails
It spins to entertain the reason,
This train of rope
Called heart.

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