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Off to the races
hand versus mind
thoughts running a mile a minute
tightly gripped felt tip pen engraving each line
like a scalpel against skin during an autopsy
or a pitch fork piercing the earth in search of hidden treasures
poetic asylum from the norm of rap star aspirations
I wanna be a rock star
forget spell check
these thoughts will wait for no mans corrections
perfection?
not here!
just running at top speed
not looking back to see who could be near bringing up the rear
just running
trying to catch my breath
trying to pace myself
fingers weakening from running laps around these blue lines
but these thoughts are not waiting
the feeling is urging
I need to spill this ink…

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My dear,

Memories we have created.

Mistakes we have made and hated but found solace in.

 My return is inevitable, but not impossible.

Loving you is not a dream but a reality I wish to share with the world around me.

Thoughts of you dance ’round (in) my head,

like loose change in my pocket as I run through every past encounter we’ve shared.

The first moment our eyes met.

Our first warm embrace;

Lips connecting as emotions ran wild and tears fell on bending knees to kiss the ground in our first departure…

The excitement of touching your face.

The thought of placing soft, sensual kisses on your lips again keep me going each day.

That moment when night

covers us with a blanket

of stars, kissed cool breeze

and  passion soars, like eagle wings spread as if it could hug the sky!

I long for that moment…

Soon it shall be as I write it, but for now all I can do is imagine…

 

Yours truly…


*kinda lost on what the better title is. Wrote this for fun…

I spill thoughts like blood upon a floor after a murder.

I hold my pen like a weapon,

drawn quick like a gunslinger.

Taking aim in any form of words that spill over my tongue,

squeezed between my lips,

and breathes upon each page a life of its own…

I spill thoughts like an oil spill in the ocean.

I hold my pen tight, afraid to let go,

like a child afraid of a dark room.

My words are thick, salacious at times but surely a talisman

’cause what I know is all I speak of

and that which I don’t I dare not malign.

I spill thoughts like it’s all I have left.

Counting syllables,

perfecting my craft.

Rearranging words untill I’m satisfied with what I have,

written with velleity to be more than just a writer.

I wanna be a poet.

A scholar among most.

Famous,

and well-known.

Wealthy is fine but I’d rather decline your offer,

cause if my thoughts spill any further I may lose myself in greed…

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