This must be an irreverence
These words brought forth on a whim,
A whim of intention that are lies no less.
I am no more than a puppet
On a string to a legion of critics,
Voices ungrounded, blowing in the wind.
I will not confess to the sins I write
For these irreverences are calculated provocations;
Though my critics would never admit it
They love me for the desolation of my dissension.