Glass Paint

I am a weaver of words. Make no mistake I said words, not wisdom.
I am a coniessuer of simulies, and synonyms.
My shelves are lined with glass beakers and tubes containing syllables, but I am no alchemist.
Make no mistake, though, I am a poet.
I will reach for the sharpest edges of your mind, and whether I come home with lifelong scars or your lifelong adoration - I don't mind.
No, I don't behave like someone with something to say, I don't pry. I just sit and sift my words through mesh until only the most complex remain.
Because cliche is a killer, it won't impress. How many others are out there right now with calices between their thumbs and index fingers speaking the same words I am?
If you feel like you have already heard this before, it's because you haven't. At the end of a stanza or the conclusion of a verse all of the colors start to fade. These pictures I have painted in your thoughts are temporary. Make no mistake, though, the feelings are endless. 

clichepersonalPoetryspoken word


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