People are in fact poems
We just don’t always know it,
Or show it,
Heads filled with sawdust
And though she sees me
As self-serving; I’m not,
Or I would be more
Than I am,
The scarecrow
Dorothy finds hung up
In a cornfield,
Mocked by the crows
I’m supposed to scare,
Scared of my own shadow,
Out of which I shape
All those things I fear
Just a silly straw-headed poet.
Struggling to make rims
Out of sawdust and dreams.
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