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?