How I would adore admiration,
Of those minds adorned and awarded,
over these abandoned attempts of aptitude,
Just a drop of appreciation allotted for I.
I surrender such sorrows to symbols,
That so surely will be swept away swift,
As strong winds destroy shoddy structures,
Such as they, surrender to sobering sobs.
What wailing is done for winds of waste,
That warrant my worried wanting mind,
Of what would war against I.
Psalms, pretty pinging in my soul,
prisoned by petty problems,
that propagate pious perversion of poetry,
preventing I from publicly presenting it.
False, those who figure that failure,
Is a feature of a frivolous fear,
A forerunner in feign fame,
For myself, no in fact would be freedom.
The terror that tears me testily,
turns my terrific and timid dreams,
To abhorred terms of terrible torts,
to tarnish poetry with tinkered times.
Build a banishment of boundless works,
because my bounds of borrowed words,
would bring benign lines to bad repute,
Of balbutient baboonery to this noble art.
Still, I create composures of a public catalog,
That I caution to any careful civilized character,
to cauterize their corneas to these creations,
creativity can not cure my cruel thoughts.
Here though I hastily hand you,
My heart and heavy handed works,
Have you heard these haughty words,
help if you can heave these hefty thoughts,
So that my happiness has a place held in poetry.

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