Words are trickling
out of this fountain
pen that are not my own.
Plagiaristic. Echoey.

Your words forming
on my lips and fingers.
Your art, my life.
How I yearn to make
my voice the one
that is heard.

Instead it chokes
like Casey at the Bat.
It splinters like
the spreading chestnut tree.
Where I should have never
kissed you and you
never should have kissed me.