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But A Renter

A poem

By E.K. DanielsPublished about a year ago 1 min read
But A Renter
Photo by chris robert on Unsplash

I spy with my little I, my ego

I hear its voice — a choice — plucked from the pleura.

I choke on the choke, its spines reserved for the refined palate…I never had a taste for the heart.

Its prickled ends pierce my flesh. I detest!

Its putrid odor, an ode to its owner. Of this skin, I am but a renter.

surreal poetryStream of Consciousness

About the Creator

E.K. Daniels

Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (1)

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  • Mackenzie Davisabout a year ago

    This is very good. Wow. A decrying of ego, put so plainly, yet so beautifully poetic too. That last line is awesome!

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