To the poet, the performer is a prophet able to profit off problems pushed past with words You see they’re heard - well and seen well and paid and that’s the writer’s dream or it would be if they were so capable but something handicaps them After they cap their pen - that’s kinda the end A rhyme placed and then… And so they envy them But I’ll show you their sleeve and I’ll undo this hem See, they’d have you believe the spotlight is their first right stolen from their soul, food taken from their bowl, but their first right is self sight They see themself and that is another kind of wealth It isn’t cheers and accolades It’s reigned fears and a track a stade wide and forever far and a bottomless jar of grit They’ll never say it they probably don’t even know They’re bound as much as any of us are handicapped, held back, kept down Ultimately it’s the ground we’re born to You’re blocked from any path that is not your own There are some that see themself and also stand on stage and, like a mage, show their audience the raw material of a soul they are an imperial whole the poet that is the performer the former that is the after the drift that is the drafter And here we come to laughter for we for all of us for among us few are found so fine and of course we grasp divine we teach our peers through trying and end up crying and after drying we despair for we are here and not there and the dirt bites my boot and the air is unfair and maybe that is truth but Fair is an advisor to which a blind ear would be wiser To the poet, the performer is a prophet but to the person, the performer is a soft hit a brittle chit merely a skit of split wit To the poet: Drop the title leave the label unshackle your ankles from the sharpest angles the angels in our minds the thoughts that are our binds Quit them all See the light unbroken by Babel and when you have teach me to sheer away the shade and weave with that which can be weighed for I too am stuck in this charade
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