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A Rambling Long Poem

(a spontaneous raw trip through my brain) Come along and please bring just your open mind, My thoughts sitting on so many fences I can't count. Sharpening my wit on white picket points never forgotten; Boundaries holding sickness of home within its grasp. Kicking a can down only road I ever knew at that time; Highways now rushing me to unknown welcome destinations, Promising a way to free paths laid out before me. This trip through my psyche only beginning. Ever wonder what's just beyond the sparkle in one's eye? Introducing yourself to twinkle can surely end in darkness; Tatoo pain memories only I could truly see, Still looking close enough skin may not appear so clear. I've seen things standing behind me while eyes were shut, Some even slithered and crawled up spine without knocking. Knowing for sometime animals can think maybe better than I; Could it be all that bull**** really has some substance? A one-eyed dwarf might see more than all brilliant minds; So isn't that a concept that millions might relate to? Of course lit tubes filled with boobs can blind reality. Napoleon dancing naked in vision waking human vulnerability. My God any critic reading this poem must be losing it, How could one critique uncontrolled intelligent insanity? Any thought worth anything should never be killed, Now that is only my opinion so please don't hold me to it. If you think I've finished it's not by a long thought; Short bursts of fame usually end in final uncaring glances. I haven't even seen my own brain so where is the knowledge? Usually winds up in my mouth or on quill so go figure. Yes I've been known to write more than two stanzas, My vagabond wandering essence seems to breathe before me. Who needs lungs when gray matter never seems to sleep? Even it might be dead if spirit blood didn't flow there. © Copyright 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014




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Date: 6/19/2014 4:15:00 PM
Way to go with this winning work..Congrats..Sara
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Date: 6/18/2014 12:20:00 AM
It's all that poetry, pounding at your brain to get out. Just keep picking up your pen. Congratulations. Love, Joyce
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Book: Reflection on the Important Things