deepundergroundpoetry.com
Reconcile...
In dark of night
when ghosts and specters
visit, my guardian angels come,
in robes of words to clear
my page for heart felt prose.
The shake their robes,
words fall like snow to cover
my page. I read the words
but don’t recognize them as mine.
Can words, such as these,
be claimed by me? But the angel
says it is my heart that writes.
angles, are just messengers
from within, delivering my words
to a reluctant pen.
I must accept inspiration as truth
given and truth written. Truth given
by that unknown source within,
heard by all poets, to pass on
to those who will hear. To those
who will understand the meaning
of that which the author does not.
The curse of the poet, the battle to
reconcile his mind with the tip of his pen.
when ghosts and specters
visit, my guardian angels come,
in robes of words to clear
my page for heart felt prose.
The shake their robes,
words fall like snow to cover
my page. I read the words
but don’t recognize them as mine.
Can words, such as these,
be claimed by me? But the angel
says it is my heart that writes.
angles, are just messengers
from within, delivering my words
to a reluctant pen.
I must accept inspiration as truth
given and truth written. Truth given
by that unknown source within,
heard by all poets, to pass on
to those who will hear. To those
who will understand the meaning
of that which the author does not.
The curse of the poet, the battle to
reconcile his mind with the tip of his pen.
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