Oh little skill,
Which I almost proclaimed to be my All,
Wrapped around my heart so tightly,
I cry,
That my blood is paper,
And my bones are words,
Love me for what I write,
Is something I must never say,
For myself cannot be wholly found,
Among these purple stripes,
And golden orchids,
Or truly,
I Can be found
In all my follies,
A human standing,
With lies for eyes,
I hope you see more Truth,
And no one dies,
A little more because of me