Poetry, to me is an eventuality of a mastery that is happily, or even tragically achieved, a seething, a reeling, a shining, a realizing of parts of our heart that depart and grow on their own accord.
The poet, to me is void of belief, and of whatever we think he or she should be, as they are likely a muse to somebody doing the same things, just needing a little commonality, before turning the complexity into a simplicity that even you can read.
The poem, to me is simply the spilling of ink, on blank sheets that loudly state their names before they leave, but explicitly received by shaking hands, and fading feelings, reminiscent of waking to forgetting dreams while brushing your teeth.
Its all any god ****** thing you will it to be really, and the poets are anyfuckingbody that lies, or speaks honestly, or even in between, even serious going all the way to silly, back to romantic, and stopping on scary, as it is all fairly subjective, to our positive, or negative perspectives.
It is merely what you make of it.
And it, well it is life, it is living, it is giving, it is taking, its making hearts feel at home when they are all alone.
Its leaving them the **** alone when they spill their guts, when they give their ***** and strut their lumps.
Its comparing cuts, and trophies, while soaking in the **** and learning something you never knew of.
Its shutting the **** up when you speak, so you can hear yourself think.
Its being a **** for the hell of it, from a life of dissatisfied self entitlements.
Its a **** but not a ***** a **** but not a lord, it is a delicate, fragile animal, to be adored.
It is everything
Every thing
Everybody
Every zing
Every song
Every painting
Every smile
Every frown
Every up
Every
D
O
W
N
Every in
Every out
Every hope
And every doubt
Every enemy
And every friend
It is every beginning
And every end
It is formlessness
In decent
Ascending
Contempt
It is poetry
And at the end of the day
Its all that's left
My everything
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Poetry, to me is an eventuality of a mastery that is happily, or even tragically achieved, a seething, a reeling, a shining, a realizing of parts of our heart that depart and grow on their own accord.
The poet, to me is void of belief, and of whatever we think he or she should be, as they are likely a muse to somebody doing the same things, just needing a little commonality, before turning the complexity into a simplicity that even you can read.
The poem, to me is simply the spilling of ink, on blank sheets that loudly state their names before they leave, but explicitly received by shaking hands, and fading feelings, reminiscent of waking to forgetting dreams while brushing your teeth.
Its all any god ****** thing you will it to be really, and the poets are anyfuckingbody that lies, or speaks honestly, or even in between, even serious going all the way to silly, back to romantic, and stopping on scary, as it is all fairly subjective, to our positive, or negative perspectives.
It is merely what you make of it.
And it, well it is life, it is living, it is giving, it is taking, its making hearts feel at home when they are all alone.
Its leaving them the **** alone when they spill their guts, when they give their ***** and strut their lumps.
Its comparing cuts, and trophies, while soaking in the **** and learning something you never knew of.
Its shutting the **** up when you speak, so you can hear yourself think.
Its being a **** for the hell of it, from a life of dissatisfied self entitlements.
Its a **** but not a ***** a **** but not a lord, it is a delicate, fragile animal, to be adored.
It is everything
Every thing
Everybody
Every zing
Every song
Every painting
Every smile
Every frown
Every up
Every
D
O
W
N
Every in
Every out
Every hope
And every doubt
Every enemy
And every friend
It is every beginning
And every end
It is formlessness
In decent
Ascending
Contempt
It is poetry
And at the end of the day
Its all that's left
My everything
