Always aware of his errs,
He draws closed the blinds,
The rays of better judgment

Acknowledged by squinting eyes,
But cast aside by an adventurous mind.

A martyr for poetism,
He continues without respite
In the name of glorious

Come one, come all!
Behold the incredible
Drowning Man!

Why does he drown?

He’s just taking a drink,
But he has a big mouth.

Is there hope for him?

Love and love only
Will give him the courage
To be himself.

Who is he?

This time is not his own,
His dying lineage of poets and gentlemen
Are looked upon coolly by the reasonable eyes
Of the postmodern world.

To be himself is to
Disappoint everyone else,
For the world eats poets,
And the pragmatist would
Rather see him dead
Than happy, for his
Happiness is a disease
That sweeps up
Those with well-thought lives
And turns them into

An endangered species, he wanders
Cluelessly through the days waiting
For something to happen. He lives
By a bell ringing muted beneath
Layers of dust. Rusted and cracked,
The aching beauty of a broken heart
A voice off-key, and the pining
Dream of another here.

Truth is he’s afraid.


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