I’m only a copy of a poet

That was and never will be.

A poet that drowns between lines.

That is buried in pages,

Weeps words,

Sigh inspirations.

A copy of a hidden poet,



That no one knows

And never will.

Will only be a vague idea,

A maybe hugged by fear.

Where his dreams are the reality

Of his mind, and his life

The reality of his eyes.


One thought on “Maybe

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