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The people in my class analyzed poetry With finely sharpened pencils And color coordinated pens. I don’t understand.
Love is a four-letter word Accompanied by a hashtag before it And an idyllic image of feet and hands and sun and sand shortly after Love is a catchy little tune
They want to understand me. They want to know how I work. They want to cut me open and see my gears Turning and turning. They want me to tell all my secrets, Tell my every thought,
A poem is- nothing. Why does a poem matter? Because a poem is a piece of the self Even a comical limerick Yes,
Anger calls out to you, and addresses you with full confidence Needing that aggression to feel accepted, feeling out of place otherwise.
In the lovely poem Annabel Lee The author rhymes his infatuation The angels kill her because of envy All the same he loves her weak expression Look beneath the sly words and anapest
As I present myself to you As I walk away askew May I ask some questions too? To make these vivid flames anew?