Michael T. Smith writes

Idiot (Or, I know why the clipped bird sings)

Bow down to your own feet:

the driver came and watched the homestead burn.

You didn't trust the spring,

but autumn changed your mind in due time.

The false prophets

don't even know they are false nowadays.

I could be your fan but what you did disgusts me

(the world too).

In my mind society is in “anarchy” --  

but only in the lowercase.

The wind from your mouth was a breeze yesterday

but turned into some raging storm.

And your flat head

makes no sense: the harmonics of your lies

only make hatred seem shy, such that

your ruins are more beautiful than the mask you put on.

It’s your goodness that scares me,

being the sinner of stardom.

Because giving a human pride is like giving an infant a gun.

Hence, Imitators paint their lips on the grease of yours.

And now you indent your eyebrows,

looking at me,

but forget the one who set you free.

"How could I say this?" --

is a statement without the slightest weight,

airy like the syntactic cross you bear.