You're a poet; they claim.
They tell me with bold, spotlight faces
and observing eyes from under
a quiet indignation, a smug bow.
With manners, tempting reverence,
they continue on with their speech,
asserting worth, casting back dismay.
Innocuous, it seems; pleasurable
for the host and the guest, but no.
Their words have no gain, no value
beyond a sighted smile, a soft nod.
All good intentions were left behind,
next to coat hangers and welcome mats.
They speak as if a simple judgment
might chase away the restless mind,
as if this conclusion would amend
all my endless woes, all my words
framed with antiquated eloquence
at the cost of my patchwork dreams.
Arbitrary, this claim, when marking
me as something I could not be.
Only a collection of bottled thoughts,
I have come to be, the silvered image
of pop art tongues: fuck yeahs and
hell noes, a modern obscurity of lies.
They pretend I am great for the risk
of tastel
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