Can I be the poem, and not the poet's hand
For once, let beauty weave me, a living strand.
Let syllables shape my soul, and rhythm be my heart
A melody that echoes, a work of art.

Let my beauty be breathed, and brought to life,
With beautiful words that rhyme with life
Ink the papers with meaning, and etch my name,

A stanza that tells my story, my heart's flame.
For once, let me be written, and not the writer's guide,
A poem born of silence, where words reside
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