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Poem: Poetry

Poetry

He sits in His room,
pen and paper at hand,
afraid that His missives
are nothing but bland.
Emotions unbridled
but no ink will flow;
He’s so much to say
that no one will know.
 
He can’t find His voice,
His feelings, His words.
Why is this harmony
written in thirds?
He’s anxious to write
a poem that will please her.
Make her smile...:(
Will it?
 
SO! What is a poem?
He asks in the dark.
Inspiration alludes him
He waits for the spark
to burst into flame
and swirl in His mind.
Instead He just sits,
His thoughts undefined.
 
Soon all His scribbles
begin to make sense,
His sentences still
in imperfect tense.
But maybe His scrawl
will turn into verse
clever enough to
break this damned devil’s curse.
 
With structure and cadence,
some meter and rhyme,
maybe all those critics
will like it this time.
He logs on the poeticous
to post it before
His courage fails and
He deletes it once more.
 
Next morning he wakes
and pulls up the site
certain he’d read
of some critics delight.
But to his dismay....
For no one he writes!
 
Sad and depressed
He knew what to do
He wrote of traveling
to bid everyone adieu
Swallowed His pride
with a bottle of red.
 
A sword, am I,
made keen by Satan’s writ
a mighty blade of steel
prepared to fight.
A soldier again?
Is he safe from satan’s pit,
alone amid remains
of sacred evil’s blight?

(2015)

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