I must readily admit I am guilty of this deep pleasure When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so, But like a sweaty fat man Waiting in line at an out door Restroom, I must admit that I find it Quite uncomforting when I find one written about me, As good as it may be, Some lines genius and genuine Grasping me to a T; I feel naked as a blank paper Being written over and told this Is what I will be, or am, Or will never achieve, Archived in a thought, Popping my bubble of Existence and letting a stanza Didctate my life's Unfortunate, But very well writ poem Stake me in the soul, How well they know me, Plagiarism of my own Confessions, And I realise They are just peices of poetry I have pasted in the past Cleverly put together In some Rondeau' or Dickinson flurry, And wonder what the truth About a plagiarism's gambit, Hoping to nail me onto The front page wall, Disguised as poetic license To hang me out in the open, Yet I have seen these lines, And no one can expose Themselves better than I, Read between the lines And there is a hint of envy, The honor becomes mine.