The Butcher

A Poem about a Poet Writing Poetry.

I’m the butcher,
writing eloquent lines
while she sleeps,
asking me to turn the TV down.
As I diligently scribble,
the most unsuspecting soul,
tales of love
and romance
while eating chips
and watching men
craft swords on the screen.
I’m my own sort of wordsmith,
forging gentle creations
of deep emotions.
The world may never know,
of which I’m fine,
that this butcher of poetry
is slicing his words
to delicate pieces
that they will devour
as if assembled by a skilled artisan.
And I will sit back,
enjoy my creations,
in the unaware manner
as I lounge on my couch.

The mystery:
Am I just a good craftsman
of fine words?
Or does my rough, dry exterior
hide something deeper,
My eyes will never tell the answer.


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