Solitude surrounds so many similar souls,
Waiting wearily wanting to be worthy of wisdom untold,
Hoping to have the happenings of homage here,
Before death destroys this domicile of the spiritual sphere.
Writing relieves the pain that causes writhing,
Enemies are effortlessly extinguished with ease,
Greatness is ground in growing with God's guidance,
Allowing mind to make the imagination sing.
We are the imperfectly pained poets praying for peace,
Yet, constantly comes calamity claiming that's catastrophe's ceased,
Expecting us to undue the damage of an unimaginable leech,
Suckling at our life's blood as we try to write a magnificent piece.
That is the woe of the wretched wound we've been worthy of,
The gaping gash of God's hands, urging us to grind our hand ungloved,
With pen between fingers, blotting the whiteness of the page,
Long have we languished looking for leave from our one true love.
Poem of the Day - The Conundrum of Venus and Mars
Poem of the Day - Writing Home
Poem of the Day - Loving In Grief
Poem of the Day - The Procrastinator's Promises
Poem of the Day - Die With Me
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