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THE NOTE

(The only poem I ever wrote)


A note is born,
its crystal is clear.
It awaits your words
so it may hear.

With beer as thought
and drugs as ink.
The note progresses
and begins to think.

It develops its tone,
based on sight and sound.
The lessons provided
were never profound.

A belt, a bible
at worst a sword.
The note begins singing
its awkward chord.

With slobber on sandals
it struggles to breathe.
With braces on eyeballs
its mind never teethes.

Its crystal now clouded
unable to steer.
Rainbows never color
when shinning from fear.

From rusted suggestion
it struggles to call.
Another note locked forever
out of Carnegie Hall.



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