Monday, June 28, 2021

89

it's the same handicap for love
that plagues my artistry:
you'd rather murmur the words
than give actions to be seen.

you'll tell me that you liked it,
how I set words to page,
how they spoke to you
or said what you wanted to say;

you'll tell me you want to know me,
get to know what I hold in my heart,
how my muse brings ideas together,
how my mind sets them apart;

you'll say all the things
that I most want to hear...
but when actions speak louder...
you always disappear.

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