Comments Posted By Poet

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well dats what it is…
its severe..
a feeling so strong that u fear it..
it may be love..
maybe pain even..
but we fear it..
and fear is the key
to overcome….

» Posted By poet On 05.15.2014 @ 7:58 am


my fingers hurt, I’ve been playing my piano for far too long.
sparkling notes come to life under my fingertips
only after hours of hard work, says mama.

too much hard work, too much time.

I never thought I’d get such a pretty word to write poetry about, though.

back, back — be like Beethoven, be like Bach,
don’t question, just drive forward. keep working hard.

sophrochronia said I should stop.

well I’m keeps on, let me do so, because I love my piano, my piano is my soul, my pieces, my tying rope.

she is the instrument of my despair and love.

» Posted By poet On 09.23.2013 @ 11:21 pm


Speak loud, Speak soft, Speak clear
Speak of Hope
Speak of Love
Speak of Peace
Speak for the end is near
Speak your Mind
Speak the Truth
Speak sounds
Speak, and recall those dear…

» Posted By Poet On 01.26.2013 @ 11:10 pm


If those who love
and hate like fools are merely
figments of God’s imagination
what becomes of the golden rays
of thought that shine upon

» Posted By Poet On 11.08.2012 @ 9:33 pm


I’ve been handling gadgets since I can remember. The funny thing is that now my work has to do with gadgets. What I do is I get my clients’ latest gadgets reviewed in top publications. We don’t always get good reviews but we do manage to keep the clients happy. But what helps me most is that I understand consumers much better than gadgets.

» Posted By poet On 04.21.2011 @ 8:48 am


No matter how big you are, in the end you’re going to fall. It’s something that’s hard for him to come to terms with but there it is–seven feet tall and about a ton, all muscle and talon and gold death, and he can’t get up in the morning sometimes because the world is too heavy for even those great arms to lift. Who would have thought giving up murder would be so hard.

» Posted By Poet On 04.05.2011 @ 2:42 pm


L longingly watching the green bar
E eternally grow
T to late it is red….

I don’t feel as if I have enough letters to make an acrostic poem.

Oh well.

» Posted By poet On 01.01.1970 @ 12:00 am

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