Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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I think I could, but don’t know how.

My worry is for you.

In spite of me, what’s mine I give.

It’s simply what I do.

I never ever cut the line,

Hold patience,’til my turn.

Despite my heart, I will concede,

Where other’s wants concern.

A saintly take, this way of mine?

Or, path of self-deprecation?

No concept is as foreign to me,

As the act of self-preservation.

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