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Why couldn’t you just take my money?
Rather than letting me hand you my writing,
And then casting it aside,
Smirking as you do,
Turning on the television,
Giving yourself to the passions of entertainment,
Screaming the joys all night.

I know how Bukowski felt now, when she read his poems.
I have been stripped,
Now stand in front of you,
Sweat, tears and mud streaked across my chest,
Caged among the freaks,
My hands bleeding on the bars,
As you spit from the crowds,
Laughing,
Mascara falling down your face as you cry with the joy of it all.

© Billy Herklots 2013

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Todays piece come from Billy Herklots, our first to be featured by this young poet. This piece has an unusual, daring structure to it, and to us speaks of rejection leading into a kind of incensed resignation of the situation, whilst screaming at it all. For anyone who has loved the wrong person, or opened themselves up to someone close just to be rejected. A poets quandary.

As always, leave your thoughts below, and share this poem with the world.

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