After Reading a Young Poet
You’re writing what I could have written.
But it was another season.
Maybe my skill never had your shine,
maybe my hull was never mine.
When I read you,
I read myself.
Truths you tell, are the truths
I could never tell.
You caress syllables to complete
the emptiness of your experience.
I know your trick, I know your trade,
I know your sieve, I know your song.
Unwittingly, in poetic hues, you’ve condensed
the colorlessness of my canvas.
Should I embrace or exile you
from the kinship of my quirks?
But it was another season.
Maybe my skill never had your shine,
maybe my hull was never mine.
When I read you,
I read myself.
Truths you tell, are the truths
I could never tell.
You caress syllables to complete
the emptiness of your experience.
I know your trick, I know your trade,
I know your sieve, I know your song.
Unwittingly, in poetic hues, you’ve condensed
the colorlessness of my canvas.
Should I embrace or exile you
from the kinship of my quirks?
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