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The poet`s mind, do I deserve such praise?
The worthy pens, can I be counted one?
My writing poor, what soul does it amaze?
I am a spark! I Shakespeare cry the sun!
Oh, in my verse, what`s new or much improved?
I am quite small; poor mind that wants to write!
I`ll never be a great; to tears I`m moved.
I am a slave of those whose minds are bright.
With honest sadness, I know I`m a fool.
Do decorate my flesh with pity and cry.
When I do die, I`ll have, my friends, a pool
Of painful tears to make my soul death high.
I am a weed that wants to be a flower.
Yes, crazy dream, and I do say it louder.