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Blush

I was standing outside a bottle with a delightful height.
Nothing around, just sand and water.
Why do we learn about the words of dead poets?
Why do we try to intrepret them as our own?
I could say one small swallow standing on a wall,
and you could hear that I feel insignificant and depressed.
The words are mine.
I could learn to fly on toasters and lamps
in a gumdrop flute with a chicken pot pie,
though what is this, you mistake my imagination
for drugs.
If the poet wishes to be colourfully neurotic,
and you find yourself in a pool of pink icecream,
and yet you still ask why
or what or how,
perhaps you would do well to just accept the strange
and allow the flow
to melt you in a pool of styrofoam
glass.

Author notes

Just some thoughts ^^

Picture credit-Gabe Miller

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