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Poetryfn
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Imposter

CATEGORY

life

Views: 408

I'm self taught,

Let the words flow,

Trip off the end of my pen.

Bottle neck in my auditory canals,

Swan dive out of tear ducts,

Like wounded men,

Jumping from lofty heights,

Praying for safe landings,

Only to find concrete rubble,

Lined paper, graveyard.

This journey, from novice,

To master,

But a portion advanced,

There's still so much to learn.

Still I remember my first poems.

Odes to my parents,

About bravery,

Heritage,

Sacrifice and blood.

How did I know they'd be,

Shades,

Indicative of later mournful, tomes,

Sheafs of linen, hand pressed,

Hand print to concavity,

Two decades under this,

Rock,

Marker,

Behind this expression.

Solidarity, shown,

Like impression,

Here then washed away,

Beneath shifting time.

I'm self taught,

Use words without regard,

Only stopping to confirm accuracy,

After the fact.

Easily, how phrases find thier place,

Stanza deep,

Form shallow,

Constrictions in meter and rhyme,

Never served me well.

Never had the patience or thesaurus,

For such limitations.

I'm self taught,

Not a poet,

Merely lucky,

Given the gift of gab,

The license to mend words,

Into patchwork of meaning,

Blanket of understanding.

I am but an imposter,

A fool in Shakepearean high hat,

Claustrophobic collar.

Shadow boxing,

Mirror image,

Self doubt,

A reality, only I can see.

-tdp (4/7/13)

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COMMENTS

Contest Winner  

2b2b2 says:

Tight Flow....imposter I doubt...thanks for sharing....ONE

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