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[Hail to me - a poet - and allow me to lie to you]

The Poet

And I shall call myself an artist
And claim the world is manifested in the ink of my strokes

And claim superiority over the fable just living their lives without perspective

And claim I know better
And claim to be the only one to see

And claim I create what people always wanted this world to be like.

And claim to entertain those of particular intellect.

But I'm blind.
Canvas felt by hand.
Lies following the lines, pulled apart by the brush.

Each line rewritten just for pleasurable language;
The hand not divinely motivated creating perceived perfection.

O' truly a great fake it is.
I wish we could open our eyes.
While silently hoping we never do-

[And there I was on 11.04.2009]