When I write,

My shit smells like a rose.

That’s because my material

Is a fusion of poetry and prose.

My brain stays cocked and loaded

While yours stays on “safety”.

Not a damn thing you can do

To evade or escape me.

Back at the pad,

My pens are all out of ink.

And to think, in a blink

My words manifest with a wink.

A sudden intrusion,

Causes confusion;

And with it the conclusion

My pens need an ink transfusion.

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