Best Dedicationred Poems


The Muse

The Muse

She sat on my bed, red mouth scattering.
Drinking my smoke and comfort.
I was dancing diet pill, with ear buds.
Pestering on my shoulder,
was her dead lovely.

I, am smell of sometimes,
Her, a voice of flavor on the tip.
A whisper of fever,
In her caves,of poor light.

Desire is focused in holes in ceiling tiles,
Ear into eyes, unable to divert.
Her wisdom , a days mock frolic,
Shutting down my nervous faculties.

Feeling small in her Uni-verse,
Mime tracing her outline,
Stubbornly secret,in her intent,
The words flint for wanting.

Adaptation the influence,
No one wants to see,
I loving a soul, be for ********.
In the moment stunned by her pristine.

Her works she read,
I realized consumed, 
The famine mentor, critiquing me rightly,
Charring to a birth within.

And to give shine to an apple,
In her decreeing eye,
I became a heroin's lover,
Microsoft Zen for months.

Regretting I wrote weak-soft,
Now to coffee and wanting it bitter black,
Muse subservient to her a speaking fantasy,
As her red mouth scattered.

(for Silva)

Premium Member Red Poppies

A place where the red poppies grow
Covering crosses row on row
A place where the red poppies grow
Honoring the giving soul
A place where the poppies grow
So we will remember and know
Why we have a place where the poppies grow.

Poe Poet of Poets

Three red roses placed on his grave
And a toast to the fair raven's friend
A master of words, born to die young
A poet with an untimely end

His Tell Tale heart now silent and still
Never to be heard anymore
But weeping still heard, tears fall like rain
From the spirit that he called Lenore

Forty years old when his quill ran dry
And could barely even make out a sound
"Lord help my soul" were the last words he spoke
Before they buried him deep in the ground

He wrote of the darkness that haunted his soul
And the spirits that invaded his mind
Sanity was tempting him just out of reach
The one thing that Poe couldn't find

A bottle of cognac and three red roses
A stranger would place on his grave
A small price to pay to the poet of poets
For all of the joy he gave
© Larry Belt  Create an image from this poem.


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