The Copycat

I plagiarized a poem when I was 6,
I think – perhaps a little older then.
I wrote the first 4 lines and tried to fix
my poem by adding a quartet to them.
The words I stole were not as good as mine,
but stretched the piece to what I thought should be.
I showed it and my dad pronounced it fine,
which started a cascade of grief for me.

My loving folks asked questions and I balked.
I really couldn’t speak for 5 to 8.
They praised my work. They flattered and they talked
about my future, saying what was great
from child me would bloom as I mature.
It left me feeling awkward and impure.

This entry was posted in Family, Personality, Poetry, Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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