Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)
Perhaps like you,
the man I am, I am not.
The mysterious cloud made up inside,
made out of smoke.
Tell me again, as I smile.
A.C. and D.C. listeners, listened to all.
Some love inextricably instead of hate.
Monday like Sunday I have misread.
I am the look on your face.
Hands that are eye's, become you have said.
I am not,
like the man that he made.
A puff of smoke made up of rings,
that come home to us, he has made.
Comments about this poem (Mickey O'Rourke by Is It Poetry )
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