At last, we have found us; let the poetry flow 'tween our entwined souls and our eyes reflect the passion of every word we write.Let us bleed freedom and cast off our mortal cage, for heaven awaits us, to grace its page.
Gracious Words.
This is not really a poem
except it is, or so you
are lead to believe.In reality, this is
no more than
a few sentencesa
few
pauses
held together by
a hope that it
will be recognised
as something;something deeper
by someone.
This is no more a
poem than an uncooked
strand of spaghetti
rigid, lifeless
and extremely brittle.Stew on it a while
mould it with experience
and a sprinkling of
emotionand the dead shall
be raised by no more
than a stylish flickof a masturbating wrist.
This is not really a poem
except it is, or so you
are lead to believe.
In reality, this is
no more than
a few sentences
a
few
pauses
held together by
a hope that it
will be recognised
as something;
something deeper
by someone.
This is no more a
poem than an uncooked
strand of spaghetti
rigid, lifeless
and extremely brittle.
Stew on it a while
mould it with experience
and a sprinkling of
emotion
and the dead shall
be raised by no more
than a stylish flick
of a masturbating wrist.
(Source: graciouswords)
