The Poet

My words confront me,
undress me.
If I could write a song,
I would cradle them in music
and carry them to your ears,
to distract you
from their truth.
But even as I try to turn away
they chase me ’round my head,
until I am compelled
to write them down.
I imagine them emblazoned
across my forehead,
and you must surely read them
in my eyes,
floating in those pools of vulnerability.
Most just shift
and turn away,
but I keep looking,
hoping to recognise the one
looking back long enough
to hear the incidental music…

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