There was once a buggered old hen,
who thought of writing with a pen.
But her nose went pink
when she drank some ink.
Gagging, she cried, 'Never again!'

Stroking strings and
feathered wings.

I read you,
and the way you
form your words,
your silence, which
lingers in the air.

What truths do you hide,
and the tricks up your sleeve
which peek stealthily past,
as you work your mind
into drunken frenzies.

Death evades me.

Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere veils,
itching for a soothing touch
upon a poet's burning soul.

And when those layers of words
upon words are unveiled,
(if one dares to)

know that underneath all
that rubble, one last hiccup
is being taken.


Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere longings
and fantasies; a kingdom
of smoke a poet builds, where
inky demons prowl and
leave footprints.

And when all that
mist is dissolved, with
naked truths dangling mid-air,

know that beyond that fallen
kingdom, a poet lies broken,
yet half - mended.


Those pretty words, the only
companion in a completely
unsimplistic world.

"Women like you!" - he spat.
And in those three words,
flowed the venom which drowned
everything else. ..