The Agony and the Irony

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Goosebumps are the

Fingers of truth

Pointing through thin skin,

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Mocking the transparent cover

Of clothes that are too small

And fears that don’t fall,

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While trying to write away

My tear that I can’t write.

My pen spews forth

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Floods of almost thoughts,

Language drowning philosophy

Until finally all I see

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Is little drops of play dough

Plunging to their deaths;

There is no such thing as a poet.