If my writing lacks creative zeal,
An absence of hubris I do not feel
and cannot reveal emotions true
in a poem expressly written for you.
For years I sacrificed my own charm and wit
while quietly swallowing your counterfeit.
Though now I am ready to tell you what
with conviction bound to every last thought.
You’ve no right to be vial or terse.
What would happen if the tables were reversed?
This world has afforded you no special favor
and I am no longer your punching bag savior
I think you dull, to this I now confess,
purged of pity and sanctimonious duress
Thus, care I not for an opinion, you’ll forgive
T’is only with myself I have to live.