Fool! To think my words can make-
A place for persons such as I.
And liberties with verse I take…
Which bring me laughter, make me cry.
I delve within my memories-
And bring forth pain, or maybe joy…
The things which are so real to me-
From when I was a youth, or boy.
To bare my soul to callous eyes…
For faintest praise, or none at all.
Why do I find myself surprised?
Why do I let my teardrops fall?
For if they knew the price I weigh-
To draw from memory’s tainted well.
The awful cost I have to pay-
Those escapades on brink of Hell…
The dreams which I had put to rest…
The things of which nightmares are made-
In order that one write his best….
They are the poet’s stock in trade.
And so I write, and some will read-
I try to bare my heart and fail….
To touch a corresponding chord;
For most will mock the Traveler’s Tale.
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