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Look into mine eyes
tell me what thou see

I see a prison, a soul
with hopes of escaping

I see padded walls
with a crazed man aching

I see deep sorrow
a human breaking

I see a gray sky
always raining

I see a husk of skin
eternally forsaking

I see a chasm
forever isolating

I see a mind
always creating
and hating
thy creation

I gazed upon thine eyes
and I saw hell in thy pupils
 Dec 2017 Marty T Ottman
Q
So this journey has come to an end
Whether you don’t know me at all
Or think of me as your best friend
This is my goodbye, my final call.

Thank you for the adventure; thank you for your time. I have nothing left to give, no words left to rhyme. This is my last, I’ll leave with a whisper. This is all I have, what I began writing for.

Should you ever neeed a shoulder, please find me. No matter where I go in life, where you need me is where I’ll be. Hold me tightly in your thoughts and I will hold you in my heart.

Merry meet, dear rhymers, and merry part.
This is the last of my poetry. Thank you for sticking it out with me for the past four years. I've decided to focus on other goals I have since my life is essentially falling apart. Poetry was an outlet for me, but it more feels like another way to indulge my burgeoning escapism.

So, I've decided to take away the place I escape to so I can relearn how to face problems head on. I've got a lot of self-adjustments to make in the near future and this is just one of them.

Of course, if I am contacted on HP, I'll come flying back to respond because it's been home for years, but I will (most likely, hopefully, probably) no longer post here.

Again: Thank you for the fond memories,
Q.
 Aug 2017 Marty T Ottman
Traveler
Who ever you want to be
What ever your avatar
Project your poetic words
In line with shooting stars
The maze is in the mind
What ever you claim to see
No need to hide behind
Subjective fantasies

I will except you
In the rude or raw
Unbroken truths
No poetic rules
Nor laws
Can hold us up
Or bend a knee
Set yourself
And your writing free!
Traveler Tim
 Jan 2017 Marty T Ottman
Bri
 Jan 2017 Marty T Ottman
Bri
Savaged beasts.
Oppressed humans.
Corrupted souls.
Intolerable actions.
Eternal pain.
Tainted hearts.
Y**earning minds.
Poetry, not a form but an art, when writing theres always a start, vivid and lucid dreams, to fishes in streams, a creative mind, starts to unwinde, an inkless pen, when writing doesnt end..
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