Great poetry comes straight from
Pens of great poets 
Not stifled by egos 
That hinder 

Willing to work on weaknesses taking liberties
Born from loins and wombs
Not literal, just poetical
That heals 

Inner self tortured by soul
Flaming with passion and distresses

Straight from your pen 
Titles were created, inducing
Creativity, flexibility in
Writing grandeur poems

This full catastrophe living
is tough
morning catcalls of capricious longing
an abstemious journey that leaves me replete

with nothing

my mother always said
the reason why love matters
is so that we'll live life well
feel in sync,
even be lucky enough to be
touched

by an angel

I heard the sound of pages turning
from writers' alcoves everywhere
where the dim night lights were burning
and poets laid their deep souls bare.

Then there came that final day
when verse and music both were done.
Had bards not heard their parents say
be sure to not look in the sun?

That fierce light burned their muse to cinders
and dried the ink within their quill
regardless of their age or genders
without vision they'd lost their will.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
Ever he would hide
poesy he had bound.

When the poet failed,
no one sought his work.
But he never quailed,
left alone in murk.

When the poet passed,
everything he wrote
stood no chance to last.
He had never gloat.

When the poet ceased,
beauty went away.
Darkness was released.
Now, the night is day.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
We had all relied
on the poet's sound.

Excuse Me , I Thought You Could Write(Splash Pool Submission Working with titles)

Confusion flies across the page
As if the words have lost their way
And originality has died
A run on sentence fell off the edge
committing suicide

you know not your assonance
from your consonance
Yet the script still prattles on
The coherent thought that should be there
Has all but left and gone

Your words look great upon the page
Roget would be so proud
Who cares about their meaning
Or how they sound aloud