Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.
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