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.
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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.
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But that’s how it is.
Don’t be fooled by what lies behind appearances,
Inside poets are paupers, too.