In the process of a poem

These words,
They hold,
I want to say,
I want to speak more,
Do all that I want,
With alphabets,
Vowels, syllables,
Not just enough;
I want more,
I write,
But the cycle has held me;
I ride at ease,
But fly no more;
I run faster,
But fly no more;
My wings are wet,
And feathers flustered,
Underneath the depth
My words are dry;
Words that ought to sink,
Flown across,
A shooting star struck its tails,
Wishes were stuck,
On the back of the tongue
Wagging verbal diarrhea
Reality cures them
These Tongues tied down in time,
Unfaithful inks my crime;
For I am a poet who lost his soul
As Many tongues dried On the beaches of time


~ by exploreamaze on June 10, 2010.

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