Topics, subjects, headlines, sentences, paragraphs, letters that forms words is word play...
We use them this way and that way
to comfort
to hurt
to describe
to besmirch
to judge, to sentence
to menace and threaten
betting
collecting
to subscribe medicine directing
Fingers gripping pens to write the mind opening topics with subjects that form paragraphs from letters to words, different languages, meanings to mean one thing or another. English alphabet, and other nations' characters, whether or not you are them or actors, no matter the factors
we use them this way or that way
to comfort
or hurt
to make an imaginary scape coat for something that's wrong (sorry)
words are strong, no matter how they belong to be written to make the pen sing songs with a circled controlled motion hoping the word play means something...Could mean nothing, but that is word play, right?

-Peter T. DeSpirito

Is the home of the **** hearted that sent people to graves by the gun they held….dearly departed….it’s hard to live in this beautiful place without hiding our face away from danger and the gangster anger…angrily leaving us weary about loving
“Brooklyn”
…money taken late at night…killing pride from inside like venom from a snake bite…why fight to live…we have given so much and still give for a decent living…and still have to worry about being sent to our grave by brave thugs who shoulders shrug when they send that hollow tip slug to our chest digging itself deep inside like venom from a snake bite killing our pride…’cause we think we can’t do anything…yet we have power of might….but it won’t matter at night…’cause the **** hearted blood suckers from “Brooklyn” have already token what we cherished the most
“Our Brooklyn” streets are filled with life stripped ghost….belt on pants are used as a gun host…spill the first sip of a 40 ounce to toast the dearly departed…
”Brooklyn” my home of the **** hearted, hidden face from the gangster angled anger....I am no stranger to the danger of “Brooklyn”

"New York City...My city of reality...my city of those broken dreams...my city of the business schemes...New York City....my home sweet home...the only place my heart will roam...so i could never ever leave it alone"
-Peter T. DeSpirito

A poetic mind will never find it so hard to see the words....to feel the words...
to place the words so perfectly where he or she may want them to be...

In a poetic mind lays a soul....that has enough control to impose that words are never easy to let go...so they over flow....some darker than others...which smothered the un-uttered compact and cluttered words.....

A poetic mind will unwind from time to time....some poems will rhyme....more often than many will not....but that won't stop that poets poetic mind....day dreams of the words that fall into place in front of faces....not leaving spaces on the paper to write another un-uttered smothered word that compacts and clutters the poets poetic mind like window shutters....

A poetic mind can never let words just be...written from left to right....its just to easy to write....a mesh of words blistering the finger tips from the pen grips...and the paper scrapes...across each line because that poetic mind will find it....so easy to grind it or engrave the words...so a poetic mind becomes a slave to the paper....blank is it? to you it may be...but on a blank sheet of paper I see....words rhyming in perfect harmony....made from the poetic part of the mind of mine.....

This poetic mind won't find it hard to see....the words that I perfectly place together....whether in blue or black my poetic mind won't cut slack to the blisters on my finger tips....or let go of my pen that drips in motion that places....the words so gracious...leaving paper with no spaces to write another smothered compact un-uttered word made from a poetic mind....a mind of mine....

P.O.E.T.I.C    M.I.N.D
E.      H.         A.        E
T.      O.         T.          S
E.     M.         T.          P
R.     A.         H.          I
         S.          E.          R
                     W.          I
                                   T
                                   O
-Peter T. DeSpirito

Can't let go of the feeling....being lost without a cause just cause....I have no Clause....no calls to being some one's....(belonging to no one)....not just anyone's....but that some one who would always want me for me...not who I could be...I can't let go of...short passages with no aim in this poetry stained game...I stay a slave to...making my pen engrave the words quicker then my mind thinks....filling the paper with empty but thoughtful passages links...to a piece of my heart...yet another wasted unpublished word art...I part with no dashes...write about lost and found love....yup staying a slave to this feeling I can't let go of....
Fighting with such a discretion when my mind thinks...
Visioning alphabetical words when my eyes blinks...
Jotting down so many sentences my hand stinks...
being a slave to this poetry stained game links
to a piece of my heart yet another wasted unpublished word art....

-Peter T. DeSpirito