Shot Clock

you've been robbed I'm taking the stand

the microphone and the pen out your hand

leave you on stage all alone you forgot 

your words didn't memorize your poem

you need a cheat sheet write love poems 

on your arm poetry to keep you warm

its cold outside tonight standing under

moonlight I see a handprints inside my 

silhouette made by something that 

feels wet a fresh coat of paint 

dashed and thrashed with some rain

you sing like you're in a lot of pain

so entertaining I'm just saying

thank your lucky stars you believe

in God so start praying it may be

too late the poet has escaped

out the gate I may be bound by

borders, boundaries and certain liberties

the poet resides inside of me in a

non physical spiritual society 

like falling the poet is indeed free