A Sole Selfish Sonnet
When I ponder, I weigh myself in you.
I conjure thoughts that contain the word “I”.
A selfish poet, I am, in my view.
The ink only tells of me and my lies.
All words revolve around narrow desires.
Full matters never solved still inside.
I can think of nothing more than the Pyre.
To the paper, the pen does it confide.
The solution will not present itself.
My darkest hour cannot heal without ink.
So sick of complaining about myself.
This selfish poet of nothing can think.
I conjure thoughts of myself with you.
The pen glides to forgive the confession due.
When I ponder, I weigh myself in you.
I conjure thoughts that contain the word “I”.
A selfish poet, I am, in my view.
The ink only tells of me and my lies.
All words revolve around narrow desires.
Full matters never solved still inside.
I can think of nothing more than the Pyre.
To the paper, the pen does it confide.
The solution will not present itself.
My darkest hour cannot heal without ink.
So sick of complaining about myself.
This selfish poet of nothing can think.
I conjure thoughts of myself with you.
The pen glides to forgive the confession due.
October 2010
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