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I used to write to a beat like I had a rap to repeat.
I'd laugh cause I'm weak and I lied through my teeth.

I was not that angry but still upset as I said "**** don't faze me, but I lose my breath." As I lose respect.

Still... I liked to think I had the right to peace,

To change my world or try at least.

Looking back my writtens were livid.
Simplistic, moody blips driven by visions.

Just wicked.

It was time for a change I took a sabbatical, no more syphoning rage now I'm living less radical.

I used to write to a beat like I had a rap to repeat.
But now I laugh and I weep. Live life til I collapse and that's me.
1
Poetry needs to be free, like a flowing river.
Free to follow the current or break apart.
However it can only be as free as the source.
Will this poem, or this river, grow and flourish the land or simply dry up before it reaches its potential?
 Dec 2016 William A Poppen
martin
Back in the old days before combine harvesters came in, harvest time was much more labour intensive.  All the crops were loaded by hand on to horse-drawn carts and taken to the stack yard, where an array of often beautifully crafted stacks would be built, and thatched.

It was a very busy time of the year for the thatchers, who would work from six in the morning till nine at night for several weeks until all the stacks were safely protected from the rain. After the last stack was finished, my old boss was paid the overtime due to him. He remembered that one year it was just enough to buy himself a new pair of work boots!

One year, before handing over payment for thatching his stacks, a farmer named Mr Cutting said to Jim;  "That made me sweat to write your cheque this year."  Jim quickly replied;  "Med me sweat fust!"
There are lots of cottages built in old stack yards called Pyghtle Cottage as pyghtle, pronounced pie-cle is an old Anglo Saxon word meaning a small plot of land.
 Dec 2016 William A Poppen
nivek
Poets 'bottom out' become bottom feeders
somewhere in murky depths feeling their way along
almost blinded from dipping their eyes into too much surface beauty
now they only glimpse, small flashes, of what used to be so abundantly free for the taking, caught in a storm of mediocrity, unable to hear the songs of nature, poets stop believing in their craft, disappearing into the depths of unchartered waters, the place they must travel in order to sing.
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