My poems accuse me of being
Insensitive to the world's plight.
Always writing personal verse,
Being a romantic to the core,
Despite living on the crux of
A world in postmodernity.
And I stare at a blank page for
The vision of modernity.
Out of sync with simulation
And dissimulation,
Of Barthes and Baudrillard,
I pen a poem on paper,
And sometimes add a rhyme or two -
A blatant assault on the readers
Who stumble upon my poetry.
And the critics accuse me of
Romantic incurability.
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