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52 Words Hurt He sharpened his pen, Poisoning its tip And like a spitting cobra, He flicked his tongue Spitting venom of malice Against my veritable ponderous cogitation My freedom of thought decimated in a flash Buried in a dust cobwebbed coffin— Of dead rhymes never to reemerge. How easily it had been, For him to unmake me Exposing my dry bones His obliterating exegesis Merely vomit of an adulterated mind Easy to destroy, But unwilling to nurture Easy to dismiss, But unwilling to embrace A bitter prisoner of his mind Yet, my dreams swift and magnificent Stand still at the center of my heart. ...

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