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Poem- The hotel

I am writing you a non-perfect poetry.

I lock the hotel door
Behind me alone.
And makes me realize
I am like the shadow
That can come and go
With the change of weather.
But when the storm starts to brew
It can symbolize my mood
Or frustration that is built inside
When things have gone to hell.
I am not afraid to say that tears
From the past definitely
Is like rain falling
When the atmosphere changes.
Doesn’t it seem as if your heart
Comes out of you
And flows like rainwater
Where it seems as if your soul
Along with your life
Was flushed down the gutter?
But if I was a composer,
What kind of music
Could I create to make
Others really feel my mood?
If I was a sculptor,
Could I find a way
To carve out all of old pain
And still leave something
Beautiful to see?
If I was a painter,
Maybe I could take
The paintbrush and dip it
In each color and just splatter
The canvas in front of me
And know that is what my emotions
Really look like when splattered
To make you see just how fucking colorful I really am?
If I could find a way to make the poet in me
Reach even further inside and pull something out
And leave an earth shattering vision,
Wouldn’t that leave something behind
For the common reader to grasp
And truly visualize
Rather than knowing poets
Read your work?
If I could be a prophet,
Wouldn’t it be nice
To share something
That left one to say,
“How come he had so much faith
in a world stricken with poverty,
war, crime, and disease?"
If I was a sage,
Would I leave a view
Of perception for others to revel in?
But here I am trying to design
A beautiful poem to leave behind.
Even though I know I will perish,
Somehow someone might see
I only wish this world
Could be the after world
Without having to go through
All the bullshit just to get there!

(2015)

Writing beautiful poetry.

#Poetry

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