They don't want my poetry. These
Mobs have nothing to do with me.
They're responding to someone else
Cleverly redirecting them
To have nothing to do with him
And nothing to do with themselves
Except that, like the locusts, these
Seek to eat what's in front of them
Before what's behind bites their feet,
Seizing me devouring my own
Future poetry as I flee.
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