Poetry
As I write the words
my life pours onto paper,
and becomes known to the world.
It reveals the realm of all that is evil,
and the beauty of all that is beautiful.
Not a moment passes that has no depth,
and yet all is just a moment.
It is only just my words of poetry.
All is just my prayer.
With the push of my hand,
my words become paper.
The paper becomes my words.
It is just the life of another person lived.
But it is the poetry,
in which I lived it.
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