Smoke and Mirrors

Here’s an old, old poem I found that I had written close to 8 years ago.

I am no poet.
I feed off illusions
born of ink and repentance
that you rub off on me.
I am your purgatory.

I am no poet.
I see your abattoir
of premature imageries,
lipstick-stained metaphors
and half-baked ballads.
An afterlife, of lives you passed on to me
I am your crematory.

I am no poet.
But a silent witness
of your guilty passions
peeking out through your
cheating rhyme schemes
of a world you created in green and blue
and highlighted in vermilion
in your crumbling, dog-eared notebook.
I am your confessional.

I am no poet.
I just watch you fumble
in search of your masterpiece
through dingy alleys
and empty bottles
staggering on stairways
clutching on muses who scatter
like broken bits of mantelpiece.
I am your part-time lover.

You are a poet, though.
Through and through.
With your string of words
that are an imprint
of an imprint made on you.
You’re all smoke and mirrors,
Heart hollowed out on your pages.
A paperback voyeur.

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