Poem-Plagiarist

I am not

An old school plagiarist

Stealing all that I write

From this life

Obvious to those

Cursed with sight

Funny how I still

Know nothing despite

 

The writings on the wall

And the many scribbles

In the stalls

Bumping into other thieves

Busy at their theft

Rolling up their sleeves

All of us trying to take a bow

For something we were presented

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Poem-Fist

Here I sit staring down

At my clinched fist

Such force in the squeeze

Veins protruding on my wrist

To be noticed they do insist

 

Fist cradled by my other hand

I watch as it slowly unfolds

Revealing nothing

As air rushes through my chest

I am filled with anguish

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