Thursday, May 01, 2008


If poetry is self-expression,
Each confession cedes possession,
And I don't think I'm enough to go around.
I'll spill my guts and spill my ink,
I'll mix my soul for you to drink,
But what if you don't want a second round?

So prose is safe and wit is shield,
And every shrug's a sword I wield,
Against the creeping front of dull cliche.
And I'm not saying it's not real,
But if I flaunt Achilles' heels,
Maybe you won't see my feet of clay.


Yoni said...

are you kidding? tobie is always a nice drink to have!


e-kvetcher said...

*sound of fingers snapping