THE POETS PILE

I felt I was the only one who thought like me
Until I found on here a whole heap
same but different
Like but not me.

Others who think deep and see
What it means
living a life writing poetry

To feed their minds with what they read
Writing our thoughts
with our words we’re complete

Those letters may seem light as a feather but in a sentence together
they become much heavier

I feel the rising weight of each line
When my minds covered in rhymes
the pleasure is all mine

That writers rush
That poets buzz
A composers love
The pressure of the letters
The compression of my toungue

Deep down in this poem
All squashed and squished
A mountain of language
My poets pile so big
I’m way down beneath
can’t move an inch.
As the Paragraphs stack up
I’m completely stuck.
These letters turned sentences
when rhymed weigh a ton.

Paralysed with an active mind
The process of poetry
What’s yours to you ?
This is mine to me......

My mind thinks about life
In jingles riddles and ryhmes
Writing my perception
My reality is Defined
by the beliefs I defy
as I Inscribe my way through life


This Poetic Pressure
Is so heavy upon me
This energy turns to strength when freed
Stacking up these paragraphs
the release I need to feel real ease
With urgency I’m converting these
thoughts to written speech.

The completion of a poem
So sad the rush is over  
See me frowning with a grin
Same time I pout and smile
Same time I laugh I scream
Wide open eyes
see them cry while sparkling

The weight of the poets pile
It lifts and then it leaves

The end of each piece
...........so bittersweet.