I won't claim I'm the kind on whom
people depend.
I'm a man–not of honor, but of flesh
and the pen.
Wholly lacking in diligence (Puritan
faith),
I leave broken hearts, broken promises
strewn in my wake,
Pursuit of goals trumped by pursuit of
the mind.
Still, how could I stray so far as to
find
Myself afraid to just lounge under
trees
For fear of not thinking, and lack of
ideas?
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