Gracious Words.

This is not really a poem
except it is, or so you
are lead to believe.

In reality, this is
no more than
a few sentences

a

few

pauses 

held together by
a hope that it
will be recognised
as something;

something deeper

by someone.

This is no more a
poem than an uncooked
strand of spaghetti

rigid, lifeless
and extremely brittle.

Stew on it a while
mould it with experience
and a sprinkling of
emotion

and the dead shall
be raised by no more
than a stylish flick

of a masturbating wrist. 

(Source: graciouswords)