Poets

There are words in my head in my limbs and my ears there are some for the dead and for those who can hear. There's a flood simply waiting to enlighten the masses and the bold ones are mating with the word middle classes. I am swimming with sparks and it matters a lot as each letter leaves marks and the airwaves run hot. I pretend that I couldn't really care what they say but I know that I wouldn't want to chase them away. All you people please listen to the words that want out as the syllables glisten and the consonants pout. If you like the sensation of a mellow bouquet come and read my creation and consider a stay As a bird of one feather I do welcome you, yes. As together we weather the critique from the press.