My poem of grandiosity


I have begun to emulate Blake in my scribblings

With no clear idea of what that means,

No sense of original sin or even unoriginal sin,

Except the ways in which men and women behave

Hurting each other, allowing their terrors to frighten the children

Not facing life responsibly                    

With joy and gladness for every day

But letting the things that haunt their dreams

Destroy their waking                                             



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