On the drenched ones
pouring verses and words
On the cold and shivery
wrapped in quilts of mystery
On the ones humid
when I sweat to put together a sentence
And on the many mornings just perfect
perfectly dark, perfectly lit
I find myself gazing at the blankness
that stares back at my emptiness
In the same corner of the same couch
in the same room each morning
As I beseech the goddess of poetry
to bless me with a lie
to wade through the flotsam
of tropes, platitudes and cliché
To enable me dodge
the fangs of mediocrity
waiting to pounce and devour
anything that ain't to her taste
To some, a poem it may be
To me, just a way to escape
the obvious, the insistent
and the inescapable
A fabricated fiction
written by liars
who didn't have the patience
to lie through teeth
Poetry, I agree
is a better name for it
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