As the sentence calls for the proper word,
Poets make up words like shumber spird.
As the story sits and waits to move ahead,
Poets laugh and play with words instead.
They run into the fire
As the fire burns,
They swim with the tempest
As the water churns,
What calls for them to do,
They don’t.
They’re rebels in the heart
Way down to the bone.
They find beauty inside their rebellious heart,
Beating against the walls to depart,
To turn the stories into poems and verse,
That ends up being the story teller’s curse.
To all ye poets out there in the world,
Good work and keep the flow ever flowing.

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Robert L. Martin
4 months

I wish I could be that free.

Nelson D Reyes
4 months

Heard you Robert.
Got to get the
Brim brimming
Surf surfing(?)

Like. Thanks Robert

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