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Created on: March 26, 2009 Last Updated: November 21, 2011
I often felt that if I plunged
I would somehow misjudge
And find that I had fallen
Into the shallow end of the pool
Rejected at best
And most likely out of luck
When it came to second chances
The spotlight doesn't welcome everyone
And oftentimes it is those
Who wish to express themselves
That shun the expression of others
With a flick of a cigarette
Or a sip of cappuccino
At the table where they whisper
And I am uninvited
It doesn't make them better
It's just a small table in a coffee shop
Where they write for the allure
And we write for the release
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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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