A word, one word, becomes two
Then three, soon the page fills
Black marks on white sheet
And those marks, mere squiggles
Lines, curves, dashes and circles
Convey, secrets, emotions, feelings
Passions raised, hopes dashed,
Excellently or badly, it matters not
In rhyme or in prose, stories the same
Mind filled with thoughts, hand with pen
The poets expose themselves again and again

~ Edward Radfall ~
 

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