To poetry I owe everything, I owe all that life and love, together haven't given me.
I owe it your adventurous descriptions of highness and standards, those boring words, those so-called stanzas.
It's my hope, my thoughts and the only place that any good I might have stolen from this world of mean might come back for me.
Poetry fills all the odd gaps of uncertainty, mystery and unfair between two separate columns of a chapter that couldn't fit in any other books, pages or gaps. Why must we both be two columns and one unity?
Feel sorry for what you are, for your lack of chemistry, the total lack of movement in your veins. For your lack of originality, honesty and personality, in summary, your lack of everything.
Try to understand with all its greatness your stupidity, your averageness and the fact that it isn't income that makes a common being.
Sophia, Emma, Annique, Riona, Bronwen, Isabel. Nothing harsher than the truth can I say, for this time my ugly imagination is not required.
Look in the mirror. Look for once purposely. I only hope that one day you will have the eyes eyes to see its endless show of nothing, lack of content and permanently thorough obscurity.
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