All poets are but lonely children grown
in a cocoon of intellectuality
scornful of weather observations
seekers of deep truths
too simple for them
so as to be obscured
shamelessly
confuse the masses into adoration
with rambling complexities of abstractions
seekers of romance
scared of love
tender from trauma fantasized
too scared to be vulnerable
the only access a maze of contemplative adverbage
runners, they are
excusers
explorers of strange lands, of odd deeds
to you I say
I say
I say
give it up.
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