exercise in courage

It isn’t the having but the knowing
it cannot ever be had, for a roster
of reasons, one being words,
if a wordsmith forged, carved, them, and if
their leaflets leave resin specks on the fingers
or better, on the nose, it was no failure;

pencil or brush, same: real and spread
like a fresh peach cobbler before the face,
can taste, but not really; feast on feast
unending, gorge like a sultan,
but not really. Yet no lip sets will form
and voice a No unless for the sake

of the extended ache;
anything is possible; really
not really but really; eyes only look
like they are open, though they really are,
though the lids heavy drop lower
and pupils crowd around purity


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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