If not for you
there would be no need for these words
I am no poet.
Just a worn down hack,
A burned out doc
Half a bottle of Beaujolais
Into a lonesome night at a desk,
Chet Baker balming my headphoned head,
Wasting hours scratching out derivative dirges
About the most conventional banalities
That, immediately upon completion,
tend to self-combust.
The only time it ever feels good
Piling up stanzas and lines,
Is when I’ve finished one
That I’ve written just for you.
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