A Poet?

My bones, their poetry marrow

Are packed with sorrow

And yet they feel hollow.

Everything’s shallow.

Feelings account to zero.

I would like to be a hero,

Write, leave a trace for morrow.

I am but a delusional crow.

The world I know

Only through my window

Which is far too narrow.

I thought my words sharp froes

They are just mellow.

I crease my eyebrow

Like a tortured scarecrow:

I am but a foolish cameo.

My poetry’s a sham adagio.

My pain is false also.

I just want to go fro

From the muses source draw

The sacred sap I need so.


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