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Wrapped up in tendencies
a poet undressed
refers to herself
as a malcontent,
her inclinations and aspirations
are ordinary as a bitch in heat,
still she finds an altered ego
and nails it to the floor

like a pink-nosed puppy.
she follows them around,
taking notes for later transcription
she makes a mockery of things
that circle about like vultures
of the non-discreet.

She's a power unto herself, and she
reigns over empires, she's as ferocious
as a black dog trained to kill, she's
as gentle as a kiss of loving-kindness,
she will wreck the stairway to heaven
you have spent your whole life building
and she knows all that glitters is not gold.

Last few words: I wasn't going to post this until tomorrow, observing the 24 hr/one-poem rule... then I had to after commenting on Cat's recent poem. Come on folks, set free your muse from your own prison. ~A
Editing stage: 


She, her, you


Like this one but only thought last line here should be she instead of you.

you have spent your whole life building
and she knows all that glitters is not gold.

She has spent her whole life building

I say this only because it is written that way throughout. Perhaps I could be wrong.

Love to you and your muse Anna Belle and yes let that muse roll. Good thoughts:) Dad is back to hospital and I had my two hour closed mri's tube yesterday. Ughh too much pain and still holding my own though. I put it out there as nothing is private in the poetic sense and I know you care:) love xox

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