Clichés Bloodied but Unbowed

It’s a comfort we can’t speak
For you as well as you’d like.
We know it isn’t for you,

But in our clumsiness lies
The thoughts we keep to ourselves,
The reminders we are selves.

The wizardry of the best
Poets and storytellers
Traps us in ventriloquy

For their wordy avatars,
As if they’d given us life.
No one gives us life. That’s life.