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Muses
I was born in a recession
 And God with his hands full
 Forgot to give me a muse.
  
 My rosy, doll face found in a back-alley
 Has no inspiring crack
 To bleed tailored-perfect words.
  
 My ink-dried pen stutters along 
 on sycophant sympathy
 For empathy - What a luxury.
  
 A chocolate bar full of dark temptation
 Heaped with nuts, choked full of poverty
 Threaded with the sinuous caramel of death …
  
 It is a ration stamp that I cannot afford.
 Nor desire.
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