The Poet
by londonefog I’m afraid the poet standing in front of the room is trying to be someone else.
Someone else. He slams the chalkboard with ink stains on his hand, the pen he dropped begging on his knees but the chairs in front line up in perfect symmetry. Was this what he was made for?
And we wonder why the world is so miserable. And we pray that artists turn into gods, but instead, they turn into men.













