A scared little ruby-haired girl
who ought to be more afraid
of the things she says,
too busy singing to hear the song,
too busy writting to read along.

(copy and paste)

A betrayal of art.
You may steal my words,
but their meaning lives in my heart
and can be reborn of truth
in different verse,
not be destined
to die a death of lies
under false adulation,
innappropriate forms of admiration.

You have only a machine
to do your bidding.
You needed me
to speak for your need,
I think I understand
how tempting, easy,
how quickly out of hand.
But you cannot enslave my thoughts,
twist them into your own.
You have only a machine
picking the meat from the bone.
I have two decades of life
that you'll never approach
and these hands of mine
to speak for my mind
when emotion is inadequate
to express what I am met with.

You live with the distrust,
the disgust,
the reproach of once-friends,
a life-time of amplified self-loathing,
and a healthy measure of dread
associated with these memories
of what you made yourself out to be.

Where now is your red-head boasting?
Where your china-fine, china-fragile lies?
Your 'shedoesntknowwhoshesmessingwith' mentality?

Just a scared little ruby-haired girl
who couldn't become more
with a box of haircoloring
and a word processor.
Too busy painting to view the scene.
Too busy reading to write the real thing.

These things you have taken
are only a death to you.
Know this.
Find peace.
Seek truth.

10/28/2002

Author's Note: This was written as an emotional response to having a large amount of last year's work plagiarized by a friend from another site. I feel a strange mix of betrayal and flatery. Sleep well tonight, RubyGlowPhish, and every night.

Posted on 10/30/2002
Copyright © 2024 Lacy D Phillips