Sonnet 6
The nasty bastards work the poet mines
looking for method they can fleece,
the perfect meter tool, the perfect rhyme,
a sharpened metaphor as murder piece.
The nasty bastards dare to scour in in depths
and carry out the angriest memories,
a task that can be just as sulphurous
as coal mining on their hands knees,
but nasty bastards take joy in the find,
a bit still pulsing with another's heart
which strikes unhearing inspiration blind
when molded into verse and tagged as art.
The nasty bastards til their vengeful words,
the air around them keeping back the birds.
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