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Tears like avalanches.
                                                    O­verwhelming.
                                                                ­                     Unleashed potential.
Sadness like waves.
                                                    Devast­ating.
                                                          ­                           Unceasing assault.
Fists like thunder.
                                                    Enga­ging.
                                                           ­                          Unintended consequence.
Hate like earthquakes.
                                                    ­Consuming.
                                                      ­                               Unwanted arrival.
Smiles like sunshine.
                                                    Cap­tivating.
                                                       ­                              Unassuming appearance.
Happiness like hurricanes.
                                                    E­very feeling.
                                                        ­                             Unending experience.
A simile in disguise.
They say time is money, but I’m getting broker by the minute.
Time to spend, time to ****, a one way ticket
from tomorrow to today.
The past is getting thicker while the future’s looking slim.
The dawning of a new age, but the sun is getting dim.
I’m tired of it.
The clock turns and the pendulum swings
a metronome for the monotone
Straining their ear for when the fat lady sings
Tone deaf for the sounding alarm
hitting the snooze hoping to disarm
The bomb of lost seconds and hours
we don’t have time it has us,
dragging us along in a prison bus.
The sand’s slipping and slipping between our hands
Grasping nothing but air as the hours expands
A big bang of a moment to make the seconds last
We got pictures of a of life long gone in the past
Hold on to the memories cause time’s going fast
The future’s a fight but were losing all the time
When the hands start spinning and spinning and the bells chime.
Our shadows stretching longer and the moon changes face
We’re all running a race struggling to keep pace.
With tomorrow the reward that we’re all going to chase.
Tick tock the future is here
Time wasted with the end drawing near.
Keep running and running keep ahead of the pack
The past is the past so stop looking back.
Turning the days to weeks and the upcoming years
Success to failure and smiles to tears
What do you do when time’s coming for you
Fight back every moment
Stealing seconds at a time
The bell tolling our atonement
Making gains in our climb
But my pockets are empty and my wallet has nothing in it.
Because time is money and I’m getting broker by the minute.
Another  day  is  over.
Another  day  is  done.
This  week  went  past  so  quickly.
This  week  went  by  so  fast.
My  life  has  gone  so  quickly.
Old  men  told  me  so.
And  now  I  tell  the  young  men.
That  life  to  quickly  goes.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.
Call it the love child of art and philosophy
Or a connection of souls that goes beyond sociology
However deliberate and empirical
Or attentive and lyrical
The carefully chosen words paint a masterpiece in your mind
About the emotions derived
from experiences behind.
Let the words fill every crevice of your memory through time
While they may be different from theirs and mine.
Poetry is a music that resonates in our being
Sitting
in our hearts, is freeing
but especially, actively paints that uniquely perfect picture as it should
As I have tried, my hand never could.
a poem I wrote for class. I would have added more, but this is what came out in the time given. A definition of what poetry could be

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