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And if I grow, the harvest will be mine and only mine
Because I am my own and you are yours.

The soil does not reap the rewards of the roots which brought forth spring bloom nor autumn crop.
The cloud which carried rainfall does not demand praise for the leaves it fed.
The sun does seek praise for the flower its rays coaxed heavenward
And you will not take credit for my soul and it’s abundance.
That is between me and my creator.
Once flesh, soft features,
Screaming voice, blue.
Now bones, decaying in the soil.
The snakes ****** your skin,
The worms became your friends
The birds ate your eyes, your spirit in the clouds flies by
And I will watch you through the screen.
And hear your voice within my dreams,
When I awake in 68’
To play a dangerous game with lady fate
To meet you, a sacrifice I will make.
Barren Woman,
You are no Woman!
For what is Woman without her seed!

To carry, grow and breed mans leech.
A walking incubator, our bodies shaped
To case the seed, that’s all they see.

They worship the curves, the wide hips,
Thigh girth, the bearing breast defines our worth.
Drooling they leer, wishing to **** it up and gulp it in.

Latching on as though we are any mans mother,
To coddle, cradle and satisfy until
The curled foetus crawls out of the womb crying,

Stands up and stretches into the shape of a man,
And calls us weak
                     And says stay in your place, woman.
Mannequins in the shop front window,
The new years batch take their seats,
Lined up on display, unknowingly.

Between words you lick your lips - quivering
Under your brow, behind your eyes,
******* each body in the back of your mind.

Little lambs to the slaughter,
So meek and so mild.
Just as your precious Herbert
Speaks of his young bride.
Skin on soil - I sink
My lungs a network of roots,
I breathe with the leaves.
One with nature
The mind it yells ‘imposter’
Each time I find the time to write
Never telling who I am, only telling who I am not.

Squawking, sulking in my ear
Drives the pen, the words to veer,
Drives the mind to that of Lears,
Into the sullenness of my volition.
Imposter, Imposter - not a syndrome but a title;

The title of my biography, the world’s class joke
The worlds least known, the worlds last hope.

I have a Saviour but I am my own,
Rather, I insist to be my own.

Hypnotized by the shadow, or not a shadow but a void,
A black void, not empty but falling,
Falling deep and a miss, falling, falling to my abyss -

Imposter Void Imposter, write your sweet nothingness,
I pity myself but I go on, Imposter Void Imposter -
Sympathetic, the abyss lends it’s kiss.
Imposter syndrome hitting hard
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