There was a poet on HP
Who had alot of ♡
He tried to stay
     out of the fights
He kept himself apart
He had a love of poetry
He lived for his art.

Talented, he made "the grade"
As "minded" poets do
But he didn't try
     to "people please"
And so mean writes
     eschewed.
When he encountered
     "lesser lights" he didn't
     make them blue
But put ♡s on them as well
For their hearts were true.

Time went by... how it did fly!
As if given wings!
He found he had "The Daily"
(When there was
     such a thing)
He tried to READ all poets
     but could not, everything...
So he decided just to read
The small group
     within his ring.

He would NOT be purchased.
He would NOT be sold.
He was TRUE to his beliefs
Of his Faith quite bold.

Not only did he ♡
He gave "thumbs up" as well!
He reposted and was good
In fact, the man was swell!

He had a grateful following
But, as fate is wont
He couldn't keep up
     with the load...
Found his health was shot
But he tried to be a light
He tried to give folks thought.

His readership got smaller
It seemed like every day.
He still tried to be genuine
And true in every way
But nobody wanted
     him no more
He began to fade away...
Where the
     rubber hits the road
He began to PRAY.

If you don't know
     who this is,
Replace the "he" with "she"
She believes
And truly grieves

That poet would be ME.


♡ Catherine

I loved you so much;
I absorbed all the darkness out of you
and left you with my light!  

I can live with a dim light, I can forever renew my shine.
But, when the light I left you with, begins to fade…...
the darkness I absorbed from you, will come back…..
to claim you again!!

LeydisProse
3/31/2017

What is it in poems that burn?
Possesses me to twist and turn?
Pulls out the soul to let it soar,
To let it frolic to the core?

Is it the meter, sound, and rhyme?
The intricate weaves of words each line?
The charming couplet weaved with sense,
The playful paradox, soft and tense?

Is it the passion, bare and wild?
The Lust entangled with the child?
The artist's soul put into page,
The torned-up papers drowned in rage?

Is it the after, once it's read?
The moment's message stuck in head?
The "I understand." The "Hmm, indeed."
The conceited wisdom we all feed?

Is it the question beyond the ink,
The philosophies we're bound  to think,
The things we'll never view one way,
Which we debate o'er everyday?

Or is it the boldness of the art,
Ripping out the veins from the heart,
And placed in view of public eye,
Either to be noticed or passed by?

The dauntless effort of a soul,
To speak his mind and reach his goal,
Without fear of slander, death, or sin
Is that why poems burn my skin?