A poet’s duty’s to herself,
To
translate what she’s thinking
From
random gut reactions
Into
words that merit inking.
Her
purpose doesn’t thus depend
On
anyone’s opinion
For
on the page, her choices form
The
core of her dominion.
She
is the queen of all she writes
And
bows to no one’s censure.
Her
pencil leads to paths where others
Might
not choose to venture.
Some
poets crave renown and hope
The
whole world will be smitten,
But
I have done my duty when
I
like the words I’ve written.
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