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AditiKo 1d
Sometimes I take a little stroll
Through the minds and verses
Of others.

Mind strolling through
Vivid colours and memories,
Flowers and fantasies.

I walk across the lines, my feet tapping
To the rhythm and rhyme;
Iambic heart beats with mine

I stop by sometimes, by the meadows
With a ballad, sonnet,
Free verse or couplet.

Just reading through some poems.
Poems bloom as flowers; azure, flushed pink. Watered by the poet's tears.
I live in two worlds,

one in my head, a fantasy,
a world created by my words,
a get-away, an escape from reality,

another, the authentic actuality,
a stark contrast to my verses,
in disparity with the picture in my head,

of how it's supposed to be
A poet
doesn't make poetry
to feed the imagination
It makes it
to speak like air
In reality, poetry can mean anything to anyone, but in order to make poetry as incredible as your idol, you must stop holding yourself towards those standards. Speak with your heart, not your mind, you're better than any idol out there.
A tree to me:
A swaying palm, towering oak, a yew.
But what for you?
Some weeping willow,
Or a monkey puzzle tree?

My sweeping plains,
Lush meadows, in my mind's eye.
For you -
A dusty desert under a sun-seared sky?

My visions are reshaped
By every different viewer,
From paradise-landscapes,
To something from the sewer.

Paul Butters

© Paul Butters
After posting what is noe "Tree 2", I found This on the internet somewhere. Had no copy of it either!!!
You are the contrast between the sun and its midday shadow
The quiet soul with the pulse of a deer caught in headlights
You carry your words in your throat, your thoughts in your heart
You feel like a wrecking ball waiting to be swung
But you are a reckless force, a mountain that never cries

You string the laughs of those closest to you to wear as bracelets in your worst of times
You dwell on the insignificant things because that’s where you divide
You are the east and the west meeting at a central line

You are here in the present surrounded by people
You tell stories and you listen, you laugh and you embrace
But your head is in the clouds somewhere far away
And you look towards the windows to remember who you are
You’re struggling to be present because you’re already somewhere far
It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and
where the memories begin
but I know they both begin
to make sense after the first dozen times and
then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and
begin to bore me and
so I focus on waking up to both and
setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and
the puke has already dripped through the cracks left
by the dance leaving a dry yellow stain just so
I know for sure I'm home and
not still in the in-between domain. And
I try to recall the detail but fail again,
so I start a new story where I'm the hero and
not a victim this time and
where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in
a cooperative mood which makes me mad
- what's the point of a hero when
there's no heroism called for
- which makes me wonder who
called me here at this time of the night
when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and
are the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and
me of course, so what's
that make me? some cross between a black arts symbol and
a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and
anger I feel about the world

- blast and ******, I need a *** and
I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and
let nature do it's worse. The warmth soothes me at first, but
soon enough the chill takes hold and
I wonder when mum will come and
tell me it's time for school.

The answer is exactly 30 seconds later and
as usual she notices nothing,
so imagination it is then
- not such a blessing then,
despite what the teacher said.
reworking a stream on consciousness to give it more of a handle
It's never clear to me where the dreams begin and where the memories begin but I know they both begin to make sense after the first dozen times and then once they make sense they cease to be interesting and begin to bore me and so I focus on waking up to both and setting both feet on the cold stone floor where the **** and the puke has already dripped through the cracks left by the dance and have left a dry yellow stain just so I know for sure I'm home and not still in the in between domain. And I try to recall the detail but fail again, so I start a new story where I'm the hero and not a victim this time and where there's no need for heroes cos everyone is in a cooperative mood which makes me mad - what's the point of a hero when there's no heroism called for - which makes me wonder who called me here at this time of the night when crows and bulldogs are the only ones awake and the only creatures who care about the size of the moon, oh and me of course, so what's that make me, some cross between a black arts symbol and a patriot looking for a fight to justify the distrust and anger I feel about the world - blast and ******, I need a *** and I need to puke so I lay back down, curl into my fetal and let nature do it's worse. The warmth sooths me for a while, but soon enough the chill takes hold and I wonder when mum will come and tell me it's time for school.
The answer is exactly 30 seconds later - and as usual she notices nothing, so imagination it is then - not such a blessing despite what the poet said.
Stream of consciousness the tutor said. Let your imagination loose she said.  Okay.  There we have it.
Poetic T May 20
This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
       contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
           what was just plain became more.

No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
                                 Never wasted on this little one.
    
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
            it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,

Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.

Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.

A thousand papercuts from a moment of
            frustration could turn paper crimson.

From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
       Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.

So began his journey as origami butterflies
             fluttering around him, calmness followed.
            Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.
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