There
are those who call themselves poets
When
nothing could be further from the truth
They
hardly scratch the surface
And
don’t know what it means to really burn
There
are no confessions in academia
Only
books and theorems and loose nukes
And
the pseudo street poets are no better
Trading
in their souls for arcane carp
A
muse reveals nothing if your mirror is grey and cloudy
Priding
yourself on being a fugitive makes no inroads if your third eye is insolvent
And
once upon a time means zip if you refuse to leave your bubble and be real
Poet
liars are a dime a dozen as the twelve gates to the city lead us astray
And
I am sick and tired of hiding my light under a bushel of average thoughts
I
burn like a roman candle as I sacrifice everything to sharpen my writing chops
Charles Cicirella
4/16/16
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