Young Poet

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Not much substance
Is Held within
This young
Four chambered heart
But with the keenest
Eye for detail
I speculate
How this muse
Got it’s start
How a pastime
Of pain
Was granted the name
Poetry

I sit at a keyboard
And bleed
A fleeting
Essence
Is freed
The hobby
Is a long shot
Indeed
Promising
That I may never
Succeed
A name
That’s too modest
For fame
Poet

The rhythmic
Hum of the soul
Solitude
Takes it’s toll
Mind meets spirit
In silence
I hear it
The artist
Of madness
The genius
Of plight
The medium
Of wisdom
The magic
Of metaphor
Poetry

I feel fulfilled
Embraced by
The flight
So why am I asked
If I feel alright
As I build
A kingdom of script
My mind
Will Endlessly drift
Pick up
Where I left off
I walk the path
Of words
Submerged
In the light
Of literacy
Flowing
To the rhythm
Of eternity
Call me poet
Call me insanity





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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

SpringRayyn said...
Dec. 26, 2010 at 9:51 pm
I really really love where you said "How a pastime of pain was granted the name poetry." I like the ending a lot too. You did good in the rhyme scheme, though there wasn't much there.
 
SpringRayyn replied...
Dec. 26, 2010 at 9:52 pm
PS the title misled me, I thought that your poem wouldn't be anything like what it was.
 
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