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Have you noticed that my poems are not processed by computer,
Never clothed in modern trickery or polished for display?
I scrawl them out in longhand on the backs of scraps of paper
With no pretense of perfection -- I know no other way.
For my poems are my feelings. They embody me completely
With all my dreams and foibles, my every hope and fear.
And because I am but human, they are strained, but no less vital.
For this is who I am: imperfect, but sincere.
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Copyright © H. Paul Shuch, Ph.D.; Maintained by Microcomm this page last updated 14 June 2007 |
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