Hurtful Critic
Indubitably, you're a writer like me
But your world is drenched in apathy
You're plodding through with lethargy
To write words so unclear.
Introvert, you're unrehearsed
Yet so well versed
In lines that hurt
And tear apart the things that I hold dear.
My love for you
It still holds true
You're begging me to notice you
But I sense that you're a person of regret.
In stanzas and soliloquy
The daggers you choose carefully
Are aimed to say
"I'll criticize you yet".
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