i thought children i despised
realize what i did not
was that i already had so many
all these poems, stories, unfinished novels sitting as ideas in my head; they're all my little ones
dearer whom, i hold
possibly more than anyone
my pain, my muse, 'tis my power and my power is thine art—
one that i can create empires with
so what is the need,
for anyone else
YOU ARE READING
secrets from the lair
Poetryan anthology of bad poetry, but who cares [the lowercase letters all throughout are intentional, they're not grammatical errors]
