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My Dear Poet Aug 2021
”Are you in?”
said the revolutionist

“Or are you out?”
said the gambler

“What are you on?”
said the pusher

“What are you about?”
said the philosopher

“What are you of?”
said the professor

”Where are you at?”
said the explorer

“Do you feel?”
said the poet
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
I am currently experiencing
a severe case
of creative block
I’m bleeding from my ears
blood from my eyes
dripping down my chin and brow
blood on these lines
stored ****** thoughts
reserved in my head
leaking down my nose
Dam I’m bleeding read
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
Her Iris
from her eyes
start to slip
from the blows
of her nose
they drip
sliding south
to her mouth
to her lip
takes a taste
of the tears
at the tip
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
I walk a lonely alley off a quiet dead end street
at the gushing blow of where the wind and I meet
I clench my coat across my chest, turn my collar for warmth
my hat is flung off my head by the coming storms
my tie has flown and ***** like the tail of a kite
stripped right off my back, my coat puts up a fight
I tug back my shirt, but it’s bye byes across the sky
Like a black bird bleating I wish myself to fly
I extend my arms, running, like a plane off the ground
The winds undress me, more clothes dropping down
Soaring over cities, buildings and their blue seas
releasing the fabrics of my life now escaping me
I’m naked, but warmed by the layers of rays from the sun
nothing now matters than this feeling of having won
against the wind, an open sky, beyond the cast shadows below
I freely fly, with nothing on, but the air and where the wind may blow
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
It’s a fork you don’t want to walk
It’s a mind you don’t want to find
It’s a fall you don’t want to crawl
It’s a rage you don’t want to cage
It’s a trap you don’t want to snap
It’s a sin you don’t want in
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
Between the beautiful chaos and confusion
among the truth and the illusion
She only allows you up her sleeve
My Dear Poet Aug 2021
A poet has but a few
favourite things
they are much too busy
writing
dreaming
the day away
not wasting
a thought caught
on a day of play

A poet has a few favourite books
yet their imagination
is as good as any
read in their head
are heroes, hurts and hopes
flipping pages in their mind
a librium of poetry and notes

If asked, about their favourite hue
they have no colour but words
squeezing line
mixing rhyme
with feelings
close enough
paintings plainly heard
through strokes
spoken
without brush

A poets favourite things
are made up of life
and what life sings
pain, suffering, simple joys
a poets favourite toys
are madness
and the many things
they employ,
that brings birth
breath and wings
into the poetry we all enjoy
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