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Created on: February 26, 2009 Last Updated: November 21, 2011
Excuse Me?
A singular bad habit
This writing poetry
It imposes itself upon
Life's interruptions
To clarify time
Defining moments
On paper, thoughts
Which otherwise
Might have slipped
Quietly away
To serve as no bother
To anyone
Now put down
And repeated ...aloud
It inflicts itself
This singular bad habit
Upon others
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Poetry: Poets
Poet's Hands
Nonsensical these words that constant flow
As dewdrops from the morning sun
In whispers through the warming air
In elevated composition mostly in the abstract
from fact to non-fiction, light, grays, blues and blacks,
greater spirits shared
together, she was;
together, she was
an impression,
she is still
underneath is what
i am after
is it skill?
i really am
not certain
The Poet
The poet searches
for words, for rhyme
amidst church steeples
and dunghills,
in love's first kiss
and in the heartbreak
Voice
i am but a child myself...
one of many children
of the soil of this earth.
and with dirty fingernails
i've crawled this
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