the word is
the poets are pillow fighting in my mind
their torn dictionaries spilling feathers
to fall as snow upon my lines
as i fly around grasping at straws
to build a huff and a puff castle
in which i screech scared that
a real poet will burn it down
and leave me with the ashes of a dream
of a poem on a pyre
a nugget of pyrites
that doesn’t even warm a fool
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