Life in Limbo

I am not a poem 
just the poet.
An interpretation reflects so seldom
on the inspiration but rather something
in the reader gone unspoken,
provoked into motion by the thought
of reciprocation. An invitation to feel
and be rid of the lingering;
this is the job of the writer,
to put on paper what others are afraid of
in fiction and feigned familiarity,
in metaphor, make mirrors
crafted from scraps and empty images.
The audience brings the meaning they need
to fill between line breaks and spaces.
It becomes hard
when that understood difference is lost,
when your worth is regarded by words
both overlooked and over thought.
Those that love me for my songs
don’t know the truth of a siren,
when so much hinges on an impression
the drive shaft halts and belts seize.
I am not the poem
or the pen.
I am separate, intnetionally.

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