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Peter Piper

Peter piper picked a pair of pristine pens

From the local bookstore.

They were blank

Silver coated Cronin chrome, with two small golden knobs on the end

They had nothing too important on them

Not enough to make up a silly nursery rhyme anyway

Β 

Jeremy Peter wrote round ringing and wrought words

He crafted the bleak blankness into a sizable hole.

He sat down in the kids corner, where his own private world

Strung up in books and a tethered conscience

Grew

Β 

He carefully clipped and cropped, cut and trimmed a poem.

It was silly and stupid…probably nonsense…but the feeling absorbed

His heavy Head

The pages spewed out soft tender tentacles that spun a speaking silence

Around him

The arms and legs

Of his words and thought

Kicked back the pent-pulled-up pressure…

It told him to relax

And drink in the murky mold and mixture of

Words

Β 

It said that soon he’d see something sweet

Something so strained with sensuous syrup

That it won’t be a poem anymore

Β 

Just a ditty people throw in their heads,

Spinning with out an end…and hopefully

they’ll forget the story.

Β 

Β 

PhilosopherPoet

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