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Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
I've been teaching people
how to be poets.
Now, even to me,
this sounds like canned *******.
But I believe that there is more to it.
It sounds so elitist to think
that you were just born with poetry
in your heart and mind.
That it could ever be so hard to find
inner meaning where there is none.
Even love is an illusion
the same way color never existed
outside the eye,
your beauty never existed
outside my heart.

Now before I start,
let me go back to square one.
I find it hard to believe that someone
can't be something just because... they aren't.
Poetry, like all art, is a skill
and like all art, you don't need to be good.
No-one is judging your art
unless you ask them to
and if it ends up in front of their face,
you've asked.
It's a skill, you get better and worse,
good days and bad days,
but some people just need to realize
what poetry really, really is.

It's not about rhyming, or even sounding good.
It's about meaning.
What's the deal with this flower?
This flower is art.
It's a piece of chlorophyll, who cares?
Because the flower is beautiful.
What makes the flower beautiful?
Because I choose to believe that this flower is more
than what my eye percieves.

Boy, this art **** sounds like
a bunch of crap.
*It really is.
Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
"Do not ask for whom the bell tolls
It tolls for thee"
As if all rights and wrongs were just
a memory.
We set ourselves out to sea
in an ocean of imperfections
where the only way to see inside ourselves
is through vivisections,
we watch science explain everything for us
while concepts like faith and love
sink into the background
and we cannot hear the answers
over the sound of cannons firing
because we throw money at problems requiring
care instead of denier
but we still think we know where the heart is.
It's right there,
in that empty chest
in which you keep your best
hopes of ever knowing love again
in a world where we only make money so we can spend.

There will be no exodus,
purgatory is a breeze next to this,
because we bend our children's backs
like pipe-cleaners
just because that's what our parents
did to us,
it's been about growing up
it's been about moving out,
with a rebel shout
we barrel towards the future
because there is no turning anywhere back
because the train-track wasn't made
with brakes in mind
and if, out of all this, there is even a lesson to find
it's not in textbooks or written in flesh-tone ink
on the back of hands,
THINK
we've pushed ourselves past the brink
in the name of progress
with everything always being
no more, no less
we cannot digress  
because we are hellbound
Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
Do you see this smile?
You fixed it here,
when you are near
it blossoms open like a lotus.
You know my heart is like a stage play,
I have showed this thing to everyone
and their mother,
but
I've come to learn a thing about fire.
How it relates to love
and more specifically to us.
I've learned that lust, even when laced
with genuine sincerity among the fringes,
is a wild fire
that binges on gasoline and dry wood.
It burns long and bright,
but doesn;t always last the night.
I've come to learn a thing about fire,
how it relates to the emotion I feel
when I peel myself from the bed
and you are still there,
a love planted in the soil of respect,
with admiration as fertilizer
is hardly a flame at all.
It is a candle flame,
that stays within bounds
and unless smothered
will last the life of the candle.

Call me sentimental, call me a poet
I love the things you call me
and you **** well know it.
There will be no other ways to show it
because although my heart us a stage play
with comedy component,
I have shown it to everybody,
but only you own it.
Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
Just let these feelings
sit inside
and subside
let the tried and true
come to you
through the two
rules of this life
One
there is no rival
for love
Two
there is no love
if you can't face it
embrace it
UPPER CASE IT
because if you can't
give it
than prepare to live
a life
of receiving but not having
and traipse the edge of the knife
sort of like
a tightrope act
walked until cracked
in half complete
on cold concrete
with no one to say
goodbye to.

No-one would even remember you.
Love is the lens we see ourselves through
and it will all, one day, come into focus.
None of this 'meet and greet' hocus pocus,
life is an encounter
that you step up our back down to
but if you can come up,
then you will not go back down, you
are ten seconds of sunshine
in a night where no-one can find
anything,
you are the something,
you are the exception
we connect ourselves by strings
like hearts made of tin
there will be lonely days
when the path ahead
splays out like
a million highways.
But you can be a moonbeam
by which everything that would seem
impassable,
insurmountable
like boot set in dirt
so hard it takes up root
all these things
become moot
when held to your radiance
because there are gradients
in all life's creatures
but the greatest teachers
ever summoned to our side
will be our reflection
in the pond
do not abscond from this sight
you will die...

if you do not fight.



Alright?
If I ever recite this, I'm going to have  a paramedic on site for when I pass out. It'll be super worth it though.
Spencer Dennison Dec 2014
Life is the only drug I take
and
**I overdosed
  Dec 2014 Spencer Dennison
Corina
you
you're not a poet
and no matter how hard you try, you'll never be one
but what you are, is even better
you're a poem

everytime i look in your eyes
i see new lines, freshly written

when i touch your face
echo's of ancient words are heared deep inside my soul

i haven't made love to you yet, and i can't even imagine
the poetry i will feel that day

so even when you will never be a poet
you'll be the only poem i ever want to read
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