A Poem

The Poem

The ones who came before
Were not like these

They treated me gently, apprehensive
Like some foreigner unfamiliar

Friendly nonetheless
The way
They eagerly accepted
All I had to offer them.

These newcomers
They are not like those
Who came before

They beat me to a pulp;
They ignore the pleas
Given by the others
On my behalf

They betray every mystery I hold
Reserved for the patient
Expose it for all to behold

A poem should not suffer so.

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