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Post by patient7 on Feb 8, 2003 1:44:46 GMT -5
it's a frail and pointless thing to ask where my poetry comes from. a blissful silence shatters deep inside me as the words come gushing out holding wisdom like the fountain of youth
i live quiet in T.S. Elliot's WASTELAND until a HOWL like Allen Ginsberg rips through me... and only in a poets dream could the words ring "true..."
a swelling river to avert my senses to focus on a (galactical combat boot-legged vision of aristocracy)
i envision worlds colliding, i hear the voices of a thousand poets slamming with a grace replacing the faces of days wasted on time.
and a poem is not words from the mind, it is emotion, commotion, feelings from deep, (from a soul like seeds in the soil, a poem blossoms into the soft petals - or sharp thorns - of a red-red rose that rises)
i've seen enough i've heard enough i've felt enough i've understood... i'm known enough... i've had my share my fill of turmoils and triumphs, of sadness and joy of pleasure and pain of loss and... i've gained enough to be satisfied with my words...
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TheEnigmaOfLife
newbie
Careful what you say and do not comeback tenfold on you!
Posts: 24
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Post by TheEnigmaOfLife on Feb 10, 2003 2:51:41 GMT -5
...and you should be satisfied with your words always! What WISDOM, TRUTH and DEPTH they hold!
~TheEnigmaOfLife~
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Post by engarde on Feb 11, 2003 8:18:56 GMT -5
What a great piece, I like the rambling style, it adds depth and character.
Thanks for posting!
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