Often created or drafted by a fraudulent mind, repeated by falser mortals
What does one hope to impact, when the illusions of grandeur lay shattered
And knowing it would be read but ignored, for such is how life works
Writing blood stained poetries, or gut wrenching stories that invoked no focus
I have often lamented to my self on what long bygones have mired me
Words upon words have brought no consolation, let alone peace
I have found only drudgery in my woeful poetic trepidation
Why are those that claim to know love silent today at my unmasked wail
Do they hide in their veils of thoughtful subservience, and convenient memory
I have been amongst the very that have spoken of love, and its power of calm
Why then does my mind and theirs never learn of love's dubious grandiose claims
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