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This Poet You Call Poe

I fear the whispers feed my mind They tell me what to say For me the light is hard to find I wasn't born this way I hear and see those things long gone They help me with my craft Sometimes I write from dusk 'til dawn To get the perfect draft Sorrows stir within my veins As words begin to bleed No one tries to heal my pains So darkness intercedes A spirit torn without repair A curse upon this earth Severed from the things you share No more than afterbirth A poet with no will to live I care not where I go I've suffered more than I can give This poet you call Poe

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012

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Date: 5/1/2012 4:59:00 PM
he was indeed twisted and forlorn. His addiction holds us all. Nicely written. RAY
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Date: 4/11/2012 5:11:00 PM
Impressive piece, Larry. Well written. Deep. Nice job. (Note - "sorrows" is mispelled) Best to you and yours. Ralph
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