by Charles Edward Blazek
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
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Although it's very hard to see,
A poet's soul dwells within me.
In clandestine sensitivity
Lies a need to express how things might be.
I need to fill a blank, white page
With images of love, hope, rage,
Fear, angst, warmth, jealousy and hate,
Emotions, feelings, tricks of fate,
To share those things which cross my mind,
To leave some slice of self behind
When starts my trip on the endless sea.
I seek some immortality.
But, then again -
A love of words in is my heart,
A need to communicate apart
From thoughts of mere longevity,
Or anything to do with me.
The power of thought and the printed word,
To capture the powerful, enhance the absurd,
I think, may be what drives me on
To write the poem, the story, the song.
The real reason now comes to light,
It's simply that - I love to write.
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|Reviewed by Duke LaRance
|I read a poem yesterday - wish I could find it again. The opinion was given that poetry is not rhyme and meter; but sentiment. You have achieved all of those; and I think I do too.|
|Reviewed by Lisa Hilbers
|poetry is good for one's soul. Takes the pain and discomfort from our minds and puts them on the pages. Then suddenly they are not hidden and hurting any longer, well, not as badly anyway. Great write. ~SH~|
|Reviewed by Carolyn Red Bear (The Bear Paw)
|Excellent, Charles! and don't stop writing... thank you for sharing...
|Reviewed by La Belle Rouge (Reader)
|A wonderful expression of the poet's heart.|
|Reviewed by Leland Waldrip
|Excellent expression of why we write!