spewing

you are not even a phantom
decked in veneer; tissue
trying to pass as ghost
dressed as a man
but I know of imprisoned fuck-ups
who are ten times the man you’ll ever be
and I emerged scrawny
and put on a tire
and then an inner tube
and damn glad to be alive,
living to see that thing you call
reality, the truth of a dearth
in just being a person
flawed and in love with life

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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