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 Feb 2016 theinvincible
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
When you died,
O, God,
and my life flashed before your eyes

did it make you wish you never chose the cross?
Thoughts of love I don't deserve. I feel like there is no way God could love the mess I am and have been. I don't know.
If lies could  **** I'd be long dead by now.
The body of a poem
  
            Could never be as beautiful as *yours
How many times
would I return
in an attempt to be the storm
that claims your heart as an abode
on a day which no longer exists

How many
to create my earth
in subtle grooves upon your back
until the seeds of every kiss
begin to live, feeling your motive
and your warmth

How many
to reclaim the fruits
of tender mornings gone
contrary to the wind as whispers
from your lips

How many before the storm's
inevitable retreat
leaving only white flags
white flags in bloom
ceding to time
as scars
and beauty marks

And how many more
would I return
before the clouds break
in the sun

I do not know
I peer into the hole
Six foot deep
Upon inside
My doppelganger, me

I shovel dirt
Till my hands bleed
Into this hole
Six foot deep

Cover me up
The old me has ceased
Risen from the dead
The new me set free
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