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It's an odd process.
First, it's ringing.
That buzz in your ear,
It won't go away,
Until you concede.

So what's the harm.
You concede.

When you concede,
You feel ignorance.
Annoyance.
But you concede,
Again.

Once more, you say,
What's the harm?

You concede day after day,
Because surprisingly,
You like it.
The Moth climbs the ranks,
In your mind.

You're oblivious,
But there is no harm.

The ringing is good,
You see that now.
The ringing is yours.
When they concede,
You spread The Moth.

The Moth does not belong to you.
The Moth belongs to everybody who hears it.
This is the first poem I've ever written. I wouldn't mind some honest criticism so feel free to tell me how to improve my technique

— The End —