I see talent in the words of my poetry
Like a flower in the green grass
Powerfully, unbelievably beautiful
That sinks and sings and hauntingly lasts
Like a ghost in a house
With cold warmth
Like an everlasting fever
Where did this talent come from?
Did I invent it? Did I steal it?
Am I a scientist in white?
Inventing all these sights?
Putting chemicals together to form hauntings lasts?
Or am I a robber in black?
With a moneybag of thoughts?
And am I conspicuous and am I obvious and am I doing anything at all?
I see talent beneath the soul of the words of my poetry
Can you see through the soul?
Or am I just a fool?
Can you see all the eloquence?
Can you feel the colors?
Or is it just a sense?
You don't seem surprised,
Please tell me, oh tell me, am I just a fool?