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If I were a poet I would be monumental

Every page would spit venom on the reader’s unsuspecting soul

I would stake out every corner of their heart

Hinder their progress; race their pulse

Let loose their desires and hold captive their pride and just cause’s

Invisibly tamper with their consciousness

Add to their suffering and malice

Trample down all acts of charity

Expose their thorns

Strip away their inheritance and poverty

Steal them from the community for rehabilitation

Spirit them away from those they say they love

Strike out their comforts and joys

And in a last triumphant extravaganza of poetic cunningness

Extinguish them mercilessly for good behavior

But I am not a poet nor am I poetic

Those I would rather be dead or banished

Prosper and multiply in great numbers

How can I, therefore, dedicate my self to your destruction and salvation

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