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Click hereI thought it was dead
The voice in my head
That allowed me to manipulate
word into song
For what is poetry but a song
without music
I'd pick up my pen waiting for
the voice from within to sing
and hear nothing
A cancerous melancholy
metastisized my mind, my heart
taking it's toll
as I put away
my book and pen
THEN
a familiar sensation, a voice
my muse infusing passion from my pen
ink flowing across the page
speaking of souls and hearts bound by
passion, by love,by lust,
singing of injustice, trust, the thrills one receive from a lovers thrust
of heaven and hell, of souls for sale, of innocence misused and turned
to rage
singed by an inner fire to pour my thoughts, my words, my soul
across a page
All this I put to paper with pen
A poet reborn again.