You got to be something else to be a poet,
more like echoes than graffiti on freight cars.
I am a work in progress.
I want to forget my name,
looking for more than just a word.
If you're feeling financially reckless,
etch it into stone.
You need to inhale deeper,
This verbal trap of dread.
Let's all quit school and become poets,
because fixes aren't quick.
Everyone knows the stage is on fire,
as sure as fate.
There's plenty more of space/time to kill, and doesn't that sound like death?
We're all screwed.
I am not your cough syrup, and yet
I ironically caught the bride's bouquet.
The injuries are worth it.
Try lighting candles, I can't baptize myself
Running with bare feet, you will return to this:
a quiet orchestra of death.
Compiled by Tyler Clark
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