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This is a gift I brandish alone
My sheath is my passion
My sword is my poem
Intellectual aesthetic‘s
My centre of pleasure
My creativity flows on
This body is tethered

People can make me feel quite strange
They roll their eyes and shake their brains
Seldom are they on the same page
Where poetry flows
In an aesthetic array

But this is who we are
And there is no need to change
The expanding universe
Is calling our names
We are the creative ones of our societies
It is not a burden but the gift,

Traveler Tim
You are a house I am no longer allowed access to,

My childhood home, gated.

So I scale your rotting walls,
Run along the cool grass,
The kitchen is lit apricot.

At our old yellowood table sit a
strange family.
I see the familiar scratches on the surface.
Of decades of flavour being cut into it.
Garlic, onions and wood.

How does it feel,
To be so satisfied with memory?

I'm sorry I'm not as good as you,
At letting go of precious things.
Those days when you're hardly inspired, we poets have them too. When the pen pressed against the paper, no longer plays its tune.

When you silently reflect, then sighingly regret; whilst eyes are wet. " I should have done this... no I shouldn't have done that!" Pondering why and who. Then wonder no further, cause those moments you see, we poets have them too.

We poets have them too, and arguably more than you. But we poets also live to write, of the sad regrets, the lies and the truth. So, the fight to soldier on, we poets have them too. Each day we write, gripping pen in hand; to start the fight anew.
This one came to me in the shower, as they often do. Please let know your thoughts and if these words ring true to you.
and expect not to go hungry first

you be well and all be's well
u be food to lack
and you be eaten to death alive
as you don't wish anything bad
happen your mind
be best you shine not s**t on it
as you don't press against the souls fire
and let the sun have its way with you
He is a soul who doesn't know the world,
    Yet sees with his own two eyes its rules,
While his body is by his sadness curled,
    Counting his tears, who look like dewy jewels.
The crazy wind goes through his glossy hair,
    And its sword does almost strike his pale throat,
He's in a twisted state beyond compare,
    In his shaking hands the fine poems he wrote.
Viewing the Mystic's path, sometimes the frame
    Of life appears, yet all it secrets are
Still far away from him, he knows each name
    Of saint and poet, but still is far, too far.
Will the meaning of his life come true?
That brooding poet, he sometimes has a clue.
Inspired by a poet from two centuries ago.
I-sun 1d
There is "you" in every poems.
Actually you've been mentioned
Even by stranger poets;
So you're the most repeated word in the w🌏rld.
And also the most unique one.
amy 2d
Soggy thoughts on a snowy day
Small drips of melted snow
Drenching me who was treading slow
Under those mahoganies
With no one, melancholy
Staring at the plain sky
Lacking an escape
“I’m fine”, saying the same lie  
Wondering “who am I?”- Amy
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