I shot myself with my own poetry.
It was an accident. I left some poems,
uncovered, on the table, not realizing
they were loaded. Carelessly, I picked
them up, andówithout any consideration
of consequencesóI read them.
Then I realized that others had read them,
andóbefore I knew what was happeningó
I felt a piercing pain in my chest. I saw
my vulnerability oozing all over the room,
leaving stains that I can never remove.
Let this be a warning to all poets:
Keep your poetic license up to date,
but know that it cannot protect you
against accidents of impulse.

Diane Elayne Dees

If you have any thoughts on this poem,   Diane Elayne Dees   would be pleased to hear them.