A Love that lays in verse

Gentle poetry soothes like the soft coo’s of a mother

When I am writing, my soul is diving into lakes of rejuvenation

Whose ripples are fleeting

So I chase after the transient delight that is a blessing

Offered from above where stars twinkle and then hide behind the horizon


Without the expression of the vital life force of my heart I would be lost

Intertwined in the subjugation of men who are insecure

My innermost thoughts would pass over me

With little impression on my actions


Though I have my own insecurities

I feel by sharing my perspectives I am free

From the internal critic who would laugh when faced by salvation

And whose influence can devastate the fragile heart that beats


If I am Cynical

It is because I have been hurt

And if I am angry

It is because I have not yet triumphed


But through release of qualms of the psyche

The cynic falls to his knees, pierced in his chest by the spear of courage

And by the persistence of a man whose brain misfires like an old Chevrolet

The rage is turned to fine dust that is carried away swiftly in the wind


So with patience I await for the right words to inflict themselves upon me

Would the poet rush to receive praise?


But it is through the solemn and slow pursuit of beauty

That my most handsome fiery ballads come forth and spread their flames



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