A poet finds a reliable refuge in
audacity,
Which is liable to become refuge in
hypocrisy,
Comfort in the things he does with his
pen, between the sheets,
But hypocrisy is the most human of
honesties.
No matter how many times I drew
inspiration from mediocrity,
Only to rail against life's banality,
Only to rail against heaven and earth,
I always believed in the work.
I suppose the poet is a jerk.
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