is the name of a poem
by Armand Crumple.
I’m Armand Crumple.
Although I have a poet’s heart,
I am not a work of art.
You read my words. I come apart.
I, Crumple.
It’s easy to confuse the two.
I, Armand, do the things I do,
and some of them I write to you,
like this one.
And where I start and where I end,
though I pretend that I pretend,
I know I mean. Since light can bend
or crumple,
the things I mean, I mean to know,
and you can touch the parts I show—
bleak and barren, bare and blue;
exhibiting itself for you,
I am a poem
by Armand Crumple.
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