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May 2019
I'm an anthology of one
I'm a dead mother's son
I'm a poet who has no raison d'être

I can wake up with poems
That've been hatching and growing
Like a hive of rhyming etceteras

Pity me, pity me, I have been cursed
I squirt it all out like a toothpaste of verse
I've smeared it across pages and screens

It's a compulsive disorder
My brain's a pestle and mortar
Grinding out word spice like a machine

It comes out of my brain as pure audio
It's everything that's in me on overflow
Every thought in my head made physical

Words are my carbs and my proteins
I'm an infinite ******* of phonemes
Every moment of Life is a syllable

I'm an unbroken chain of events
About trying to make it make sense
About trying to ride out the wave

Opening my arms when the wind blows
Attempting  to peer into the shadows
It's me striving to walk out of the cave

No its not whether you're listening
You think it's a good vibe or just piffling
Its not what it is but what it wants to be

It's a tickertape of meaning
Pouring anagrams of streaming
It's an anthology of one and that's me.
Tommy Randell
Written by
Tommy Randell  67/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK
(67/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK)   
603
   BR Dragos
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