I am the poet with the broken countenance. Oh-in my anger, my sins have been many. I am the wrathful one; I am full of deceit. Had your sheilding pride been put aside, I might have survived this. But oh, my feet are scuffed and ragged run. We are two empty vessels pining for air. I want to break you the way you've broken me. I want to ravage your heart and take down your confidence with the minefield of my mouth. You never would weave close to me for saving any sort of anything. You're speechless when you're mean--and you never say anything.

 It's the pomposity in you that breaks poets like me.