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Eugene Solomon Jul 2011
" A poet doesn't invent;
he is a liar who speaks
the truth and listens.

Un poete n'invente pas,
il est un menteur qui dit
la verite et a l'ecoute ."
An artist, creative and imaginative
Powerful enough to place, into mere words,
The phenomena that take place in his mind.

Marveled enough by his surroundings
That evoke anger, gratitude or happiness
His mind efficacious, his talent omnipotent.

Bourne of superior intellect
Taken in by souldiers of courage and
Raised by wisdom, pain and knowledge.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Each day the Poete rises from his rest
Each day the Poete more powerful than the last
Each day the Poete expresses greatness from within.

Rhythm and brilliance flow deeply in his veins
Beauty created by the molding of his words
Truth is spoken through the realness of his verse.

Poete Prophet, able to see what's hidden beneath
He sees the lies abstruse in sugar-coated deceit
He reveals the fib's tales and makes them his gospel.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Exquisite verse, natural and unrehearsed
The Poete will forever be mind blown
And continue to expose the joy in his word.

He writes not for tangible wealth or
Useless recognition, but he blesses his pen to paper for the simple appreciation of veracity.

The Poete steals sight from the blind,
He takes weakness from the strong,
And owns the shades of colour, all to create artistry.

See I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.
Somehow the rest of the day
Fleeted like our fragile thoughts.

The preoccupied crustacean
Washed upon the shore,
Thanks to the high tide,
A swirl of earthly obsessions.

An old woman awoke early
In the morning to water her bonsai.
Who is that at the front door?
Who could it possibly be?
Was it the childbearing of symmetry
From a timid chamber?

Does a poet create poetry or does poetry create a poet?

Read and decide for me.

Originally written 4/10/11
Revised 10/18/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
baygls 4 lyfe Jun 2014
poete lets meh eksress mah felings. et also lets meh leyt oot meh emotoins two
Ronald Jones Sep 2016
huge black hulk of sunken sagging bedding
his armchair has seen its better days
his mousy derelictions from society's dictums
have born a wastrel with feet of clay
a bookworm hiding from the birds of prey
a lover unloved except for that long ago kiss on a Paris quay

cigarette burns and sudden coffee spills
scarce paper and broken quills
tribunal assaults on ambition's embattled frays
he holds fast to this chair
through many a  disorienting maze
holds fast to this comfort flop of better days

canaries mourn the demise of his old dog lassie
while johns down the street rejoice over their ******' chassis
and the ice cream man takes a breather on the Santa Monica sands
listening to the far away poet
wrap up his film in the can
for video night at the local poetry slam

milk wood meetings in slumberous afternoons
enforce the guilt of absent attractions
though grateful bon ami erases
evidence of the satisfaction
then often leans back in his chair
falling asleep on a half remembered line of Poe or John Clare

awakening wishing once for a computer
though he thinks them a crime
a luddite at heart
neighbors revile him for being an old ****
yet sometimes he sinks deeper into his chair
imagining taking the big step if he dare

burp me mrs sweeny pleads
to her lover who raps her on the back
2 or 3 times and a fourth for FOOD luck
as on the bachelor's chair they commence to ****
though after stepping into the morning's widowed wind
all seems bleak and commonly thin

but both he and she kept the loss of a sedentary promise fearfully within

— The End —