The Con Artist Poem by Kim Jones

The Con Artist

Rating: 5.0


The blank page is telling,
Taddle-telling to be more precise
The quivering pen strains to come up with emotion,
My strongest emotion in that I work with
I find an apology is in order,
For my emotion is not agreeing with the words I write,
It's telling me to move on,
To get a life,
To find a way to end the day with a different tune than what I always play
The peripheral agreement between my guilt and my heart
was made in deceit, but of the nicest deceit
for it saved me the trouble of choosing a road to follow,
and it saved me the regret for the one I didn't.

My heart and my guilt have quite a temper,
the temper which I have not the confidence to concede,
the temper with which I have not the pain to conduce.

My heart and my guilt have quite a sorrow,
the sort of sorrow with which tomorrow will not reduce,
the sorrow of sorrows with an incoming plague,
to kill off the fake words on my tongue that beseech me to leave them be.

Yes, the agreement between my heart and my guilt have such an arrangement,
The sort of arrangement I have not the slightest idea to rid of,
The arrangement in question leaves the hardest kind of forlornness behind,
And brings me to a place deep inside where I will be fine.

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