These Words Are Mine

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My pieces were becoming emotional so i had to write this...again
My mind is a flowing river
Inspiration comes naturally and most definiletly cannot be forged

It has to be earthly and straight up real and unidealistic.





Quixotic ....almost.

It has to be felt in the pits of my stomach and it has to be pure fascination. Fascination for me is appreciation, fear, anger, wit,feeling clever, feeling mad, happy and or...simply fascinated and it all comes together. Simple fascination is amazing inspiration juice for anyone.

It is not too much glitz and glamour , only when it feels right or and empty.It always comes together by itself when it feels like it, which really can be whenever. Some ideals are lost on the way to a finished poem and some ideas are invited to tag along. It really does seldom need help, very little experience is needed but a whole lot of inspiring makes it. Even experience sometimes gets in the way of the flow of an accomplished poem, not finished, but very much accomplished.

It comes from within or on the near surface, never in the middle. It is able and it is supposed to define me some way and some how.

It is every song i have ever listened to, liked or hated. It is every joke , every line, every show, i have ever watched and found memorable enough to save down inside of me or just anything amusing, entertaining or simply fascinating....
It is some type of hidden message or secret reminder to the essence of my being. There is a concealed event carefully and discreetly hidden in it. Each of them is a last minute rhyming thought followed one after another to a place of perfect doom. There always exists some kind of hidden drama that only i can understand or and comprehend.
It is an attempt to be a poet. An attempt to be awesome in my own little cyber world and a try hard to impress everyone especially myself.....myself especially.
It can make me cry,it can make me laugh, it can make me smile a very sly Papa Ge smile.It makes me which is more than i can say about me composing it.
It forms itself.. One poem becomes another or two more. Two or more different poems with ten different messages.One message interprets itself as so many things that only one mind can't make sense of all of it. Here go so many poems have not been written, so many have stopped in the works, paused in their tracks. It change when i'm writing the, reading them or even just editing the grammar, it becomes something totally different.




My mind is a poem. My poems are my mind.




However dirty, clean or impossible that fact is easily truth.An army of feelings charging into a world that doesn't seem to recognize or care about them.Seem.


Sometimes its dark, too fair and no poems except stupid ones or bad ones can come out.But they have to come.It doesn't matter if they are good or bad they simply have to come. As long as i'm thinking , they need to come.
It is how i survive...Everything. How i can live and still have my secret stardom.My favorite and probably my only talent, being able to craft with a power on words with my own real life twist on them.It is my family, my child,my fear, my love, my life. My words.These words that make it a poem are mine, my words left for the rest of humanity to read and judge with joy. These words are mine and i refuse to share they joy they make for me with ay other creature, animate or inanimate. It is all in my mind and i fear that it might all come to an end.An unrealistic fear but a fear nonetheless.I don't want to forge it or my inspiration and i want to always be proud of it, proud of me, proud of my words because they really are mine.





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