No doubt you'll complain that I'm
playing the victim,
But you exhaust my mind's whole exhaust
system.
I parked your complaints – a whole
train – from here as far
As the edge of my up-to-the-floodgates
anger reservoir,
and you pump so much hot air in my
general direction
That it won't all go out the vents, so
I made a correction.
I send it through the same pumps as the
mire
That your misplaced morality and
cliches misinspire.
The whole mess overflows when you say
not to write.
It's the one thing I do that can help
clear the lines.
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