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

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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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