I wear these poems like a bullet proof vest
Swearing you will not get through, find your way in.
Swearing they are mine.
These poems are yours, though, really.
You permeate their essence.
Weaving here and there.
I make an escape but there you are, toeing the line back again.
I‘ve decided that you can have them.
No one else will want them when I’m through.
But me…someone will.
I shed the vest with your bullet marks everywhere. It did a proper job.
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