If love was a sea, I would be a fish.

A cliché so thick you could never miss.

Originality caught with a line so thin

It dares not breathe, for moving means fallin’

The thought that was and will be.

The life and death of the cliché of me.

Was it? Or has it? Where ye have it?

Believe in believing says the poet dreaming

Up it comes and down it goes

Low it flows and high it soars

Pulling, hurting, shaking, tearing, breaking.

Up it flows laughing. Then it’s gone.

What more can be done?

A billion people with only one question

Where was it? Has it ever been?

Was there a witness who has seen?



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