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When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.
For all poets.
i hate the ocean
the smell of fish
the taste of salt
the harsh winds
i hate the ocean
the waves of my soul
drag me far enough below the surface
i don't need natures help
drowning
not apart of the series
The pen, they say, is mightier,
but is it keener than a knife?
This brittle blade of insolence,
unleashed to lash at life.

'Yeah, innit, Bruv, he got right up in my face,
cos my phone was out in lesson time
and he called me a disgrace.
Like, so, whatever, mate,
I told him where to go,
trying to tell me English,
while I'm textin' my new ***.'

The pen is not mightier,
it is tarnished and obtuse,
a vision of a different age,
wrought blind from its misuse.

Its sapling song of innocence,
split south across the grain
and cast across the classroom,
yanked up and lobbed again.

'Do you get me, Blood?
He was pointing at a seat,
expectin' ME to sit there,
as if it were a treat.
I told him where to stick it
and called him out a clown,
I **** this one-way death pit
as I'm walkin' round and round.'

The pen should still be mighty
and not a strangled stream,
that's crawling up an incline,
like an M. C. Escher dream.

Its muddy banks lie dormant,
both acorn and an oak.

'Cut that ****, you KEENO,
let's ******* for a smoke.'
What was Frodo thinking as he sunk under the burden of the one ring*

I'm slipping into the twilight world of shadows sombre grey
No more a world of sunlight
Or of birdsong summer days
Legs weary, sore, I struggle 'neath the weight
But I still must struggle on
To reach the Morgul gate
In my small hands I hold the future of mankind
For them and for their freedom I now must be prepared to die
Why me? Why me? Why was I the chosen one?
But I must think not of the past
But of a new life not yet born
Obviously I would never try to compare myself to the greatness of Tolkien but in my wild imagination I tried to place myself in the mind of Frodo
The shackles are broken!
The path is clear
Free yourself!
Escape from this prison
And unfold your future.
Deep thoughts
Wake me from my slumber
Day by day I become number
I don't know what to feel
I am losing my will

I find it hard to carry on
My heart has turned into stone
I try my best to revive
I hope our love will survive

Wake me from my sleep
I don't wanna go deep
I must get out from this sadness
So we can get through the coldness
Seconds fall fast
fleeing forever I
feel evermore forgetful—
we dance on our delete
buttons hoping all is
well capitalized forever
assuming quality can be
quantified like ***** drug
money, stopping to wonder
why fear is America's Most
Wanted why nothing sounds
infinite why I hide behind
commas why thoughts don't
shoot like bullets how
poems are made when the
words will finally flow
free of doubt, full of fantasy,
fighting the force of friction
I feel the world falling fast
as the mind collapses like
pillow frames a second too
long, a spark too alive—
we live for sightless speed

— The End —