Do 

My father told me

I had no future 

in poetry, my words

we’re unused, pointless;

I needed to settle

somewhere incomplete, earn

a sum of disappointment,

support the world

and care little for myself. 

My words would dry out,

my glow would fade

to a smudge;

I would become a ghost

in the living world,

hopelessly devoted

to an art

I once loved. 

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