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Sep 2014
People ask,
why don't you post much poetry anymore?
And my response to this inquiry
has simply been:

That perhaps there just isn't
anything worth saying right now,
my abusive mind has been on holiday,

maybe the pain has subsided,
and a new day is arising,
there is no hatred to spew,
or tears to drop,
my mind's back in order,
the beast has been locked up.

I know not how to proceed with writing,
now that things are no longer
doom and gloom,

but perhaps it's time I
bottle up the sunshine,
and share a few rays of it
with readers like you.
I figured I would actually begin to write again. For a long time I haven't felt an urge to write any poetry, in the past it was just a way to lash out raw anger and sadness with a whip of sensory wording. When things began to get better, and I no longer questioned my life purpose, or focused on everything that had gone to ****, I was able to lock the hard emotions back a.k.a. the beast. But locking the beast away also brought a drought to my creative poetry pool, to the point I began to think it had all but dried up. But it looks like a little trickle of hope sprouted with this jumbled non nonsensical poem. It isn't an Emily Dickson masterpiece or a feast for the senses, but it is something.
Brooke Davis
Written by
Brooke Davis  20/F
(20/F)   
292
     Mike Essig, ---, Anand, Ari and Careena
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