the secret poet

there is a man of many words
of which he never speaks
you may find him,
under a great l.a. sun
waiting for buses,
or walking into nowhere
he may be pale and solemn looking
with jeans and a faded shirt,
unraveling at the fabric
dirty black lo-tops
stuffed into classrooms,
working towards repulsiveness
and he may be repulsed
his fellow man, trudging
and half-conscious
brain so full and bothersome
and may you sight it now
the secret poet, with his drinks and smokes,
he may seem like your normal man
so many do not inquire,
many do not know,
inevitably.
and he may retreat back to his room
small and white, blank walls
to let the words spill out
this small little corner,
belonging to him.
and that is all,
really.