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The Poem"That's not a poem," they said, Shaking their heads. "It has no color, no heart. No rhyme, no alliteration." They took my words Written on paper, Thin from the rubber end Of a No. 2 pencil, And tore it to shreds. Each word laboriously, lovingly Rolled around my tongue. Each phrase Tasted, tried, Played with in my mind, Before swelling forth A wave in a storm, Crashing spectacularly onto wood pulp, Splattering my soul like red paint On white snow For all the world to know. "Now this," they beamed, these Esteemed. "This is a poem!" They held up a battered napkin, Fallen from my purse, Partial words chicken scratched In permanent pink marker Across it's beige face-- A blot of blue where I'd improvised, Unknowingly, with a leaking ink pen. "This is a work of art on a glorious canvas!" they said, nodding their heads. "Magnificent! Bravo!" they crowed, (Those in the Know). "That," I said, blushing red, "Is my grocery list." And left them pondering My Magnificence And my backside As I floated from the room. Vote for this poem
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