Dear Poets,
We are a wondering bunch of know it-
All's.
We breathe words and phrases
From our upright noses.
No one composes
A song that shows us
Or proposes
That we change the things we've chosen!
We love they way we live,
And we love the blood that pours from our fingertips
On to white paper.

What a hypocritical bunch are we,
Writing about death and life
As if we knew the answers to everything.