Either you are sorting it out, or you are full of it.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Words, words, words

There are times when I tire of words

When these connections are just cobwebs

Made from the dust and decay of spirits long dead

And I feel I’m just a fool who clumps them into heaps

Thinking I’ll weave them into clothes to hide

My naked flesh from the world.


Sometimes I’m overly brazen,

And I weave and weave and weave…

But the clothes are quickly ripped and worn.

So I patch them and patch them and patch them…

Until I look like a ragamuffin begging for change.


But that’s how it is.

Don’t be fooled by what lies behind appearances,

Inside poets are paupers, too.

posted by ferret at 11:59 am  

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