And the Poet Laughed

And the poet laughed By Feo. Poems are a drunks journal entries, the writer is a man of many hats, and only knows depraved verbs He's of many trades, his hands are his tools, the poor soul writer says at least With a pinstripe vest that chains a broken watch, a faded piece His boots are classed accordingly, the uniform as well He goes about his ways, everyday, with writers thoughts Living in recurring roles, his buttons are stitched like a grey threaded symbol of his ways The writers hands bleed at night, and crust like eyes in the morning His hands always bleed, it's his trade A trade on page A page with no space Just gaps Like spaces in between grins The poet laughs In the end, we all have to go home sometime.