Analyzing poetry
is all I ever do,
is all I ever do,
picked apart,
then reassembled:
spit it back at you.
Metaphors are piled up
in dark forgotten corners,
in dark forgotten corners,
waiting for the cause of death:
poetess as coroner.
See, I can read between the lines,
read things you never meant-
your intention matters
not as much as
not as much as
my own bent.
I read myself in every phrase-
each stanza bares my soul,
I see me in every rhyme-
Wasn't that your goal?
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