“It’s a gift and a curse”

We weren’t the ones who wanted to write poetry

The romantically dreadful title was branded on us

You can tell by what we call ourselves

Choosing to sound deep over obnoxious,

And failing every goddamn time

Constantly performing the same spell, Where we turn blood and tears into ink

Cursing any and ever sympathetic heart,

To empathize with our narcissism

Disguised as saints from Hell,

But never devils from Paradise


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