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Aaron Hornfeck Poem
Self-aggrandizing words spew from my page of endless,
rather obscure metaphors and similes,
each one more labyrinthine than the last,
reeking of pretention and thesaurus over-usage,
as if by some ponderous stretch of the imagination I will be considered a vocubulary genius,
capable of putting my vast knowledge of the human soul into word form.
I am an intellectually superior bohemeth,
well versed at the intricate art of story telling through a convoluted series of opaque thoughts and ideas,
therefore rendering me exclusively original,
even,
dare I say,
profound.
I balk at the very connotation that my cogitations are anything but perfectly imperfect; my pain,
my joy,
my failures,
my victories,
my aspirations,
my tortured mind,
my vulnerable soul splashed onto a paper canvass for all the world to behold. . .
if not today,
then perhaps when I am long gone.
And all of this I keep closely guarded under the guise that my work is extremely private
and personal,
a mere tool for expressing myself in a way that I find immensely therapeutic
to my fragile sensibilites.
It is not penned in the hope that anyone would see it and interpret it in such a way as to understand their inner self more thoroughly,
but merely as a means to introspectively understand my own being.
I am a direct descendant of those who have pioneered the way for people like me,
of those who have forged the road of immortality through the written interpretation of the human spirit.
I now consider myself among the exclusive ranks of this age old fraternity,
Eternally exempt from the despair of having lived a life wraught with the very real possibility of being erased from the annals of history forever.
At long last,
I am a poet.
Copyright © Aaron Hornfeck | Year Posted 2011
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