cliche

out of context

(out of mind)

simple things,

falling fine.

no rules to say,

to rules to bend,

(little things)

until the end.

sounds cliched,

like many things,

and it's true

when you think of

(me) 

read over my shoulder,

read between the lines,

(home is where the heart is)

perhaps it's better if you don't.

my poems hides secrets,

my poetry hides tells.

Question is if you see them
(or if you don't).

I almost wish you did

(but really, I don't)

know the truth,

hidden in myself.

Watch this,

(or don't)

it's fine,

only wishing you could.

The constant hum of

inspiration

(steady as the beating heart)

wobbles, counteracts

no life, no hope.

set fire to your words,

go ahead, make them burn.

and maybe I will realize

a rose by any other name

may smell just as sweet.  

cliches, falling down,

(london bridge to follow)

and they litter my words

like backhanded compliments.

i don't like to argue,

unless, in fact, I'm right.

But the one rule to follow:

(ask me no questions,)

I'll tell you no lies.

it seems my life is one big cliche,

an attempt at taking one for the team.

one big extended metaphor,

full of simple things.

I think though, to sum it up,

I'd have to pick just one.
(better the Devil you know
than the Devil you don't)