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.
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