I'm A Poet And I Didn't Know It

Those peaks are shrouded in clouds:
I've heard that before.
I'm tired of too-often laundered phrases
faded and washed out, in fashion yet so passe.
They're tires of trite thought.
Their tread is miniscule, as smooth as
not a baby's bottom
but as a lakebed in the desert months when the water has gone and there's just glassy sand hard natural smooth.
I please too much.
I please with my phrases, let's just say that I like
don't jump on like the bandwagon but let's say
I acquiese as easily as the "h" in "honesty."
I acquiese and am overlooked for being silent.
I must start pronouncing myself.
I must start
not like a rabbit
but like myself after seeing phantoms of what has been, the specters of unforgiven yesterdays.
Yesterday is not
something I believe in or something in which love was such an easy game to play
Yesterday is
like today, only my tires have been changed.
And I hope my laundry basket is foul.