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.
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