Only For Show

I’m a Type A Poet, literarily incorrect And in the company of fools, my pen goes for their neck They sing to the choir, while we cry and spill blood Their trash in the fire, their lies in the mud The things that we struggle with, just folly to them As their dilettante pleadings, ramble on and pretend Their self psycho-analysis, and the time that they steal Turn to dead broken promises, masking what they can’t feel The thing they most run from, we welcome inside As they tunnel and burrow, trying harder to hide And their one greatest fantasy, … for us never to know That their self-proclaimed mastery, was at best just a show (Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)