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A poet is born not taught
A person either has it or not
Poetry cannot be learned-only sought
The burden formed in the soul
Burns from the depths of Sheol
Wanting to come alive
Creating a kind of drive
Thoughts have to be on paper
Words must be formed! Come out!
The verse brought to life, end of drought.
Free! Yet lives the land
An oyster blossoms, a pearl
Glistening cries the sand.
Photo courtesy of https://www.google.com/search?q=girl+lying+on+street
The crazy guy with the creepy eyes is singing me a lullaby
In his head it’s a beautiful melody
I haven’t the heart to mutter… it’s actually a blubbering blunder
He looks down where I lie, his soul seeping, my thoughts meandering
Wondering what wanderlust makes him justify his pondering gaze
Thin lips parted partly allowing the sing-song and drawing a crowd around
My dilated pupils put up at the pinholes in the pink canvas above
Suddenly feeling the soft grass and flowers beneath my bare legs
Awareness…my spirit is leaving my body, and freedom comes with peace.
Billowing clouds overshadow the hot. hot. sun.
Wind going wherever it’s blowing Turning and twisting weeping willow limbs Brittle leaves complaining loudly Crunching. Munching. Underneath my toes. Lifting my face becoming a conduit of grace Glance away from me or else you’ll be Caught up in my nightmare longing to be free.