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Everything God created is beautiful so he we beautiful girl /lady and a awesome man in is own image that shows how beautiful and amazing almighty God bless is....
Once upon a time there is a almighty God, who we created us and made us with is flesh and blood....  He is an amazing and Gloria creature so we all have to worship all day and night.. He is a great creature I love him with all my heart!!!!!
They are gone but still here.
They are gone I feel their presence.
They have left but still stuck in me.
You have left me on this world with pain and guilt but your presence is still haunting me.
Afraid of the dark afraid of being alone I am lost.
I looked at the beggarman
Wrapped in a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
With a royal smirk on his face
As his eyes pierced mine
For the second or less
It took to wander by
His space of rest,
His makeshift nest
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

Today he laid
On his side,
Knees slightly bent,
A blue Bic gripped loosely
In his right fist,
Notepad white
In his right...

What does a beggarman write
From his sanctuary
Of cardboard, rags and dirt,
I wondered?

Could it be a sign,
A plea for a penny
Or a piece of bread?

Or was the beggarman
A thespian well-read
With a tale or two
Trapped in his troubled head....

As he was,
In his bastille
Of cardboard, rags and dirt...

A Danielle Steele
Undiscovered....

An Amiri Baraka
Reborn...

A literary genius trapped
In a bundle
Of cardboard, rags and dirt
With a royal smirk on his face.

~ P
(#TheBeggarman)
2/28/2014
Did you know? Cashew nuts grow on flowers,
   and they grow one at a time.

Think of the distance between railway tracks:
    this traces back to ancient Rome.

To know the true energy of the sun: imagine it
   covered all over with postage stamps,
      each square inch a bomb,
       each exploding with power only comparable
        to explosions in Hiroshima. Energy like that.

Think of this: how time once was unknowable
   for being different to everyone, until trains began
    and the post began arriving on time.

Did you know? Facts are enough to make a poem.
Where do poems grow? Do they come one at a time?
When did poems first set down their tracks?
What is the power of a poem? Does it explode?
Are poems different to everyone? Will we ever know?
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