Confession of a Poet

the silence, the loneliness, the poems of mine

all’re same all’re wired. Even if I try writing

a love poem I’ll write on the warmth the bed

holds after love; I’ll write dryness of mouth

not the taste of lips. vacant, long, blank,

they’re my moxie, they’re my alias.

bear with me readers. I write, solitude,

of sultry disturbance, of my loneliness,

many poems; sometimes different…


Last 3 lines played with punctuation.

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