Art, Pen

Dopey-Self-Proclaimed Poet

Pull a card and put it in your pocket,
take off your shirt and burn it down.
Still 51 cards will tell on you,
and again, two jokers won’t give a damn.

Conceal it with poker face,
travelling emotions don’t leave a trace,
Someday those cheek-muscles will ache,
carrying dead smiles all the time.

Dried palette and half-done portraits
were the states of my mind.
Now it’s all numbers in there,
countdowns and thickness of wallets.

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