She's nuts, tis true,
Of this we know,
We read her writes;
A true psycho.
But of life
In rhyme, she spins;
Is there not truth
That's found within?
Because we see
Some colored black,
Does that prove,
She's out of whack?
Thus we call a poet
so
Who writes of things
Deep in the soul;
Beyond our reasonings.
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