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Poetry and I


It keeps me sane when I tether on the edge,
Soothing me and fighting that dark urge,
That morbid urge to become one with the night,
So yes, you can call it my guiding light.

It lifts me to new planes of reality,
From those dizzy heights I look down
And I see my actions are not futility,
From the mundane to the monumental,
They come together in a stunning mosaic.

It is the rose-colored glasses, through which I see the world clearly,
It is the deafening din in which I find true serenity,
Stripping me of all pretenses it leaves me clothed in truth,
So you look at me and my nakedness is just an illusion.

It is the place,
Where my nonsense finds meaning,
Where I can call you a fool and have you smiling,
Where my sins are virtuous because I’m rhyming,
And where it is truth even when I'm lying.

Through its words,
I've traveled to places only I can imagine,
I’ve gone back in time to write many wrongs,
I've stood on shoulders of giants and seen the future,
And my hope in humanity was restored, well, a bit,
I've spoken against politicians who milk us dry,
I've spoken against religious dogma and shackled minds,
I’ve spoken about love won and love lost,
I’ve spoken about fair maidens won at great cost,
And you listened and you awoke from your trance,
You matched ahead not giving our shame a second glance.

In my mind I see myself on the grandest stage,
My voice, crystal clear,
The crowd hangs on my every word,
Each word worth its weight in gold,
I hear them screaming, my name,
They bid me not to stop,
Flashing lights everywhere,
And at the curtains call,
The applause seem to reverberate forever,
My ego swells exponentially with each heartbeat,
And in my mind, I know it’s all in my mind, yet, it’s real.

Poetry and I...

*****March 31, 2012*****

(someone recently asked me what poetry meant to me, I couldn't really put it in 'normal' so obviously I had to write a poem about that)

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I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
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Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
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Bedtime Epiphany of a Pining Heart

Tonight,
I contemplated
On things that were and were not,
On why
Light retracts different, in your eyes,
Like rainbows randomly ricocheting
Off my intangible thoughts,
Spellbinding...

On why,
Words sound different, on your lips,
How you laugh,
How the sounds take a path,
Across infinite dreams,
Into all my incarnations,
Into all my iterations,
Into all...

Tonight,
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God is My Barber

The sickness that made the Vulture bald
would have killed the Crow.

It is because
the gods are petty
and would not be questioned
about who they show favor to,
That Crows live to,
Squawk hysterically
At Vultures' misfortune.

We have come to understand, that,
when a petty god is your barber,
Crows, who can't afford a razor,
with their benevolent destinies,
will punctuate our precious peace
with their shameless snickering.

but
the Vulture
neither
pays any mind
nor
wages a war of words
with mockers and scoffers;
for the cure for baldness
is not found in the laughter of Crows...

*****April 4, 2017*****

http://morganes-photographe.deviantart.com/
My Second poem about Vultures. I really need to stop this...😂😂😂