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The Poem You Have Dialed...
Mr. Poem.
You and I are disconnected
as soon as my pen is lifted.
Free to do what you please.
Pick up dirt.
Fall to your knees.
Touch the sky
Or break up your words
Into utters.
After all
You are only a product
Of my disjointed mutters.
A sum of parts
Manufactured in the heart
And distributed
To mind
For polishing
And finalizing rhymes.
I want nothing to do with you now
Bastard child of mine.
