The Great Manipulator


I wonder what would happen
if I was selfish;
if the words that dance off my pen
were for me.

I am a slave to my emotions, as they make me write,
but my words meld to you.

My mind reels as it creates and manipulates.
Words of peace, words of self, words of sweet nothings.
A gift to you.

No, I do not write for myself --
I've found I am incapable --
but my soul is still bound to every
thrown away,
disastrous,
mutilated piece of work that streams from my grimy hands.

My words surge endlessly
itching for a chance
to be heard.

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