In the realm of words, a young soul resides,
A master of barbs, where civility hides.
With a pen dipped in scorn, not ink so kind,
They specialize in insults of a peculiar kind.
No articles birthed from wisdom's embrace,
But jabs and quips, a verbal rat race.
A maestro of mockery, a scribe of disdain,
Crafting verses of venom, causing emotional pain.
In the inkwell of spite, their talent is honed,
A symphony of insults, each barb intoned.
No prose to uplift, no tales to inspire,
Just a cascade of scorn, like a relentless fire.
In the tapestry of language, they weave a dark thread,
Choosing mockery over words wisely spread.
A virtuoso of insult, a linguistic thorn,
Yet, beneath the facade, a weary heart is worn.
For every jab thrown, there's a price to be paid,
In the shadows of laughter, loneliness is laid.
No solace in wit, no solace in jest,
As they dance on the edge, a heartache suppressed.
Oh, young wordsmith, why choose this cruel art?
To wound with your words, to tear people apart.
In the vast sea of language, let kindness prevail,
For in empathy's ink, a truer tale.
May you, in time, find a gentler quill,
To write with compassion, to heal and fulfill.
Let insults be buried, and empathy rise,
In the verses you craft, may understanding prize.
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