Doing seven, to eighty years with no parole, a poet 's life term
By artis
Sentences not yet served still imprisoned in my mind are released by emotions, blinking in the incredible brightness of thought, they emerge as so many words expelled in tidy orders, from the convictions of my soul Other words yet released, languish locked in brain cells, logic is the key, held at bay by my lack of understanding of free verse. Some thoughts are let out far too early, pardoned by ignorance they are soundly rejected by society, and remain hardly ever retained, their disorderly conduct is judged lacking by sharper minds, and so they vanish in the blank pages of the illiterate. When I set my poetry free, as the Warden of my dreams I make sure that it is only after time served correcting the flaws, so that it is wanted, and read when at last it shows promise to contribute to others. I share it's potential, then turn it loose and watch as it goes dancing joyously, out from the bondage of my stagnant mental block and into the volumes of love treasured by other peoples minds as well as my own. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Artis Written March 28th, 2002 © on Mar 27 2002 11:30 PM PST 0 • 18
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"Sentences not yet served..."