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i am a terrible poet
a genuine terrible poet at that
my words are of no value
they seem to come out of nowhere
to a blue blooded poet
i may be of no interest
oh well, say what you must
i am happy
with what makes a terrible poet of me
bag of bones
i cleaned my closet today...
the cobwebs remind me
of the old memories i've swept,
all of them...away
slowly, as i take a piece
off my closet's contents
black and white
clusters of old unravel
i start to drift...away
all the dust
it seemed to strangle me
this is all too much
i think i should've left
the cobwebs
and the dust
inside my closet
