Catholicism ✜ Fandom ✜ and other personal tidbits

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Portrait of Poetry

perfection painted
under the pretense of
pleasure

pain
has no place
here.

peculiar
isn’t it
how
works of art are
presupposed
to propel one’s
passions, and yet
here I perch
pondering

what part of me
proposed
that such a pile of poppycock
might present itself
as poetry?

Filed under poetry creative writing original