A place for discussion on poetry, reviews, contests, etc. |
How I feel about poetry Poemography it doesn't matter anymore though you think I don’t notice the way your praise is phrased in smirking syllables of condescension I see you stepping away and shielding your eyes from the spectacle of my exposition it doesn't matter when the words like sharp fingernails dig and peel me back thinly as onion skin (the fragile wrapping) unveiled undressed (nothing changes) So I leave it there in the high street I leave it on display a feast for the voyeur yet uncomfortable for the passerby having filled (no vacancy) all the empty eyes (I am not) here
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