Writing Poetry

So it's poetry you want to write, how can this be, for you are nothing but a construction worker, are you ready to give up your life, face the anxiety that will shine through your tears, never to relax in subtle idleness. Give up your harmonious life. Dispute not what fertile words are waiting to become an infinite oasis in a sea of amber, restfulness naught amiss lulled never more. The grandeur of senses swooned by the lack of your own spirit to scum the torment that befolds it, majestic naught be in remorse that will dwell upon thy very soul. In dubious ways your memories to be swept away like forest scents drifting on the limpid currents; shrouded, muffled, tortured never to be reborn, solidarity in your right torn apart by oblivions avenging treachery. Demoralizing days to come, nourishment shrouded by the harmonious burden to not stop and pay homage to your morbid soul. Sweet fervors drifting thru thy window beckoning your call to be out, to be reborn again upon life itself, but gilded in your lofty room powerless by the seductress need not to stop. Your nature enthralled upon your body fair whence restfulness abounds you, sleep deprived, emotion naught, languor taken over.