drunk children

I'm a mediocre poet don't tell me otherwise

to tie the knot between to words is nothing but a vice

I haven't felt in oh so long a feeling that might thrive

from hibernating lethargy I seem to have arrived. 

A word that fits just like a glove, is rare and shunned alike

as honest tongues inflect their homes so they won't agonise.

A bleeding knee, a cracked bone, a muscle twist and torn

I couldn't find a reason to forget why I was born. 


I don't care, I can't care for a dwarf in giant skin

a slumber took me by the throat, my heart wilts within. 

I dreamt the world much brighter, but honesty's an ache

it shakes my every bone, but I still don't feel awake. 

This isn't about poetry, these words are just hot air

thrown together, sounding well, bringing in some flair. 

But truth comes in waves, in avalanches of pain

it never comes alone, it never comes in vain-

what use has a poet, when his mediocrity prevails

a drunk child has spoken wiser when for love it wails. 

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