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May 2017
Ink
Give up your muse
of mediocrity
Throw him to the wolves

Let him roast on the spit
of your whirring pen
laugh without mercy:

"You guided me to this place,
Miscreant
Now I'll show you where to go."

The ink stains your hands
You, Lady Macbeth,
but instead of washing

use it to tattoo
the truth
all over your face
Sometimes I get tired of love poems, but, you know, I'm a lover not a fighter.
Cinzia
Written by
Cinzia  112/F/WA
(112/F/WA)   
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