Coffeehouse Writer
Robert Michael O'Hearn
Haven't you seen light freezing on some lonesome face?
A whole room fills up with perceptive lives, a moment sooner
would have beshorn. Hard-core reality, street wise everything
shows its wares, except for the truth that matters, the truth
that hinges above you, frozen in some half-angelic disguise,
as half-witted comments attempt to pry loose reasons
before Damocles' sword symbolically drops on you.
You begin scribbling furiously in your private journal
of the half-fiction, of the half-autobiography,
of the half hardened subliminal moments,
that you couldn't get penned down fast enough
imperceptibly past the unspoken lyric's broken pledge,
lolling unseen from fatuous lips, mumbling under your breath
of people with poetic conceit.