Who am I to idolize dead poets?
And compare my voice to the renaissance?
Abusing words for my gain like a ponce.
Etching these phrases out loud in public.
I scribble the truth to remain stoic.
The hypocrisy within is ensconced.
I am not Petrarch in term or in nonce.
Nonetheless, his words have lift at lowest.
A broken heart is not self inflicted.
Vocation is permeable to love.
Death, while bitter, is not the ends quarrel.
So salt your wounds with hearts unpredicted
To align your path against stars above
And love for always like the bay laurel.

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