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Saturday, March 12, 2016

More new poetry: "Undeserving"

To paraphrase a quote by William B. Sprague (and recently revived in my memory by my writing buddy @BAWilsonWrites), sometimes you heat the iron, then strike it; and sometimes, it heats because you strike it. For me, occasionally, writing anything opens a floodgate of other writings. Tonight, apparently, it's one of those nights. Insomnia helps, as well.

—Bacil Donovan Warren

I sat alone, a wayward soul
And thought about the past
That time that heaven bent to help,
And on its help I passed

I stood aloft, above the fray
A giant towering high
Vicissitudes were beneath me there
Untouchable was I

I didn’t see, and never dreamed
The morass that I stirred
Was wholly caustic just to think:
The truth that I demurred

But when the spire I lived within
Finally rotted through
Destroyed by thoughts created by
My narcissistic view

I sank into the swamp I’d made
—Which I’m still swimming in—
And swore to hate the heaven
For not giving me my win

A win I thought that should be mine
Simply for being me
Her love should just appear
And now, at long last, I can see

I absolutely don’t deserve and never will possess
The love she bears: that is reserved for men who aren’t a mess.

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