Oh how you sit there counting - calculating - computerizing your soul - in silent sums of disapproval of your infinitely shallow life. Oh how blue now square-hearted tight-tied man in a no-man's-suit don't you yearn for things you cannot even dream of (?) Oh how sharp the need for a pen and the hand that holds it and the wholeness of the poet whose spirit finds the words that bleed for you.
Excellent expression of poem here Axilea...the words of your thoughts ensure us to blend within the ink and the paper of mind and soul reaching for the desires of expressions between us...
You point to the truth, for even as a poet I do indeed need a poet.
What are the words: "Physician, heal thyself"?
Oh, how much easier it is when we have a doctor of words such as you
to help us share our pain.
Poetry has [in many ways] become the tool that heals my heart and soul. But ... I wish I were a really good poet. I say this because writers, like you, fill my heart with so much wonder and so many things to consider. Things I never truly thought about.
Seems like a Dorothy Parker or Edna St Vincent Millay is called for, if the soft quill of emotion doesn't make its mark! But all words are living and active and for each resistant lock there will be a key... but, sadly (for us poets, that is!) it's not always the keys of compassion or challenge that do it... TY K xx
Oh, if I can only live up to that title of 'poet' Sometimes I seem to be a little bit of both examples you use here. Deriding my own existence after hours in the fullness of my muse. Not in need of a pen, but in need of the courage to change for the things I CAN dream of!
Excellent work here. This brought me back to earth.
I was without a poet and I was bleeding... then I picked up the proverbial pen and learned to concentrate the bleeding into words and poems so my wounded heart could heal...
Ach! Everyone needs a poet! It was, in the beginning, words that made us. It is words that are our undoing. And what better way to mend ourselves than soft words speaking our secret truths, sursurrating healing words that purge us? And who can whisper such words, if it is not the poet? We are like doctors, prescribing the correct medicine for a given situation. We sort through our dictionaries-- rhyming, and Webster, and our thesauruses, on line and in paper, for the exact word that should be inscribed in a line-- of a poem-- of a piece-- of a life-- of truth-- a truth that bleeds with the emotions that else where we weren't brave enough to stand.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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a truly work...
Art Sun...
What are the words: "Physician, heal thyself"?
Oh, how much easier it is when we have a doctor of words such as you
to help us share our pain.
A wonderful write, Axilea.
Richard
God bless you. Kathy
Excellent work here. This brought me back to earth.
Passionately observed and penned...
.with warm regards,
.jeanne.
those last six lines Whoa!
Excellent!!
Out of the mouth of an excellent poet comes this sage advice. Peace, Love and Blessings Always, Paul.
Georg
stan
Cryssa
very well written poetic piece...
John
Quite an enjoyable read all compulated together in one poetic presentation.
Continued enlightenments,
~Gwendolyn
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Some people are clueless;-) Excellent pen!