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Without information
my imagination tends toward
the overly dramatical
theatrical interpretation
of possible scenarios
from nursed rhymes
to psychologically scary prose
I've evolved a bit though
or maybe I've entertained
my share of ghosts
with things to say
songs to play
ravens with quotes
a poor Poe
a hollow man
a platform
and it's fan
a puppet man
another's avatar
an encore
of muses and musicians
gone before
notes I play 
my pen as instrument
or am I the played
my heart the reid
my thoughts the beats
ands and ums
sometimes to walk on feet
stress my urban
accentual alliterations
alluding to my illusions
propheting from my own delusions
ambiguous ballads
about women who prefer salads
making new scars 
if they can't play
my heart's harp
rambling enjambments
ghost storied encampments
hired actors in my wordplay
on this one mid autumn day
in late october
sometimes I write to you
like a goddess monster
as if you could hear my prayers
it doesn't hurt the way it used to
I've even cried a grateful tear or two
for a fairy tale in the middle
of a life now a little less ordinary
her worst chapter
my best seller
with a six dollar bottle of wine
after I write 
every thing feels fine again
fresh oxygen
brisk walks on frost
creating a better man
who is some days my only fan
others the only one I want
dear reader
part of me only exists
in my dialogues with you
maybe at the same time
that is where I am most true
and if I could steal a line
from a friend of mine
I'm no superman
my cape is my caper
in reality I'm
better on paper.


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