I’ve heard the talk
that poetry
is truth
poetry
is a revolution
to stand up
don’t bow
until the curtain closes
don’t bend at the knees

I’ve heard
“that Villon died for his words”
and
“what have you done?”

I’ve tatooed my initials
on the face
of a star
outside my window

made tears
from a hundred
words or less

talked a bit of time
with the lonely

set my thoughts on fire
in a spark of feeling

maybe
like this poem
there is no epiphany
no truth
no death

just maybe
like this poem
poetry is plain and simple
a piece of me