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A poems heart
Maybe I am not worth thee
For I am just a thing
Thee may not see me
For I am no queen or king
To be with love like I
Or to write of love like thee
Cannot be done without a name
Shakespear
Or Keats
Let us not forget their names and pieces
Let them be an example for all
Who writes a poem by the birth of spring
The sun of summer
Or by the bright leaves of fall
Like I was written in winter
A cold season to begin
Maybe that is the reason why thee are bittered
For my existence was a flaw
A flaw no other thing
Maybe if thee hath written me in summer
Maybe then thee could adore my being
Like thee had adored thy last one too
Only let I be your last one
The last of the poems thee shall do