There is a place it’s different for each of us, where your monsters lie.. Mines and endless hotel and the doors are red with baby blue wallpaper lining the hallways. My philosophical question and answers produce a key, and I am greeted by a mirror, no reflection, my hair raises a tumble begins, and a ripple across the surface revealing the monster I face inside, then I go to wonderland but… Idk how to explain it, just when it’s over the pen hit the floor and woke me up, ink is in the page.
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Poetry, is the tapestry of emotions woven with words. Each verse a brushstroke on the canvas of the soul, revealing the beauty and depth of human experience.
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The questions we ask are just as revealing as the answers we give.
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The poet, the writer ... is sharing their thoughts and feelings with the universe on another level. Revealing their greatest vulnerabilities as some sort of cathartic alm towards understanding and empathy, or there for the grace of God go I. Perhaps a confessional place where they commune with themselves and readers will acknowledge that similar darkness and light within themselves and not feel so different, or alone. This is the way of all writing, whether it is about joy, or despair.
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"Thoughts are like clouds, constantly drifting and changing shape, but occasionally revealing glimpses of the divine in their fleeting forms."
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“There's many a broken heart finds healing, when someone's repentance is revealing.”
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Did he see the mirror of death? The eyes, the truth, and window to the soul... revealing what sometimes can not be stated out loud, as to prevent the very appearance of hope, by casting a shadow... that has no source.
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The questions we ask can be just as revealing as the answers we give.
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