Original Poetry Forums


03-26-2019 at 01:19:14 PM


Please crtique


There were times along the way,
When words were easy to say,
And I wrote songs for the day.
Those that came into my head,
And some from words that were said.
But on one fateful day, I did not foresee,
I became someone else, no longer free,
And I am not the man I used to be.
Now days bring nary a dream,
Or words to say what I mean,
And there is no place to go,
When all the answers are no.

But when I sleep and lose my sight,
My mind can at times take flight,
And there will appear another path,
Where I find words I can craft.
The words would come and be keen,
To circle me and wipe clean,
From my soul any sorrow or blight,
So now, I can now write songs for the night.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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