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 Apr 2015 Dr Strange
Adele
you planted flowers in my lungs,
so lovely, but I can't breathe,
so colorful and bright
but feels like im drowning inside
 Apr 2015 Dr Strange
Just Melz
Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart
///

Society

Is broken

///

                                                                ­          ( broken )

"""""

""""""

he walked across the midnight  bridge

The moon shined on the little kid

BROKEN !

Everything
( including him )

///

He broke away from the source of pain

//

He broke away from the source of pain

(  •  )

He broke away from the source of pain

BROKEN SOCIETY

he broke away completely

( Completely )

•       •

•       •

Dance dance maidens dance !

Take a chance on Eternity

Ain't no man can save YE

This you know intuitively

////

All together a new world is comin

A new morality

Let us ride the midnight

High above that  which is fake

/.../

Let what is broken just fall down

and stand up and take its place

Stand up and take its place
 Apr 2015 Dr Strange
Ottar
How do you do?
I am here for you.

Simple for me to say,
I am a container of dismay

After Thursday.

What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
           but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
      books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
          words what the sky says to the child, what the man
          hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
           birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
          survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
          the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
     vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.
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