*Note: This happened several years ago. Unfortunately, plagiarism is still a huge issue online.
The thief of words has struck again:
the sonnet snitch, the ballad bandit.
He skulks around, targeting his prey,
then pounces on their poems.
I feel conned, cheated, angry.
Maybe I should feel pity for him.
He craves attention so badly, he’ll trade his dignity
for the spotlight.
The sad thing is, amongst the stolen words,
he might have had some gems of his own.
Now, he’s left with choice words directed at him–
loser, theif, conman.
I look around at my bookshelves,
and think of the ink that ran dry,
the endless hours and sleepless nights;
the all-consuming need of a writer
to purge the soul.
Digging deep to get past the dirt,
the feelings that in turn
churn their way into words.
He had no respect for the art,
the process of writing.
To have women swoon
was a boon to his ego–his vanity
thinly veiled as talent.
His silver tongue is tarnished,
and he is exposed as a silver-plated fraud.
Maybe he could have redeemed himself,
apologized and bowed out gracefully,
instead of hiding behind private settings
Only a coward slips out
the same way he slunk in.