A real poet makes the masses tremble, not just himself.

I cannot do so.

A real poet is a virus. Can spread the mass of his emotions through words..music..description...the definition of beauty....

I cannot begin to do so.

A real poet fights with himself over his work...Argues, hates, loves, or fears it... always.

Always? I do not.

Yet never worries about his muse running dry. Inspiration never absent.

I, on the other hand, fear this greatly.

A real poet is strong in his emotion. Even if it is a negative, destructive strength.

This, I am. I am a third then.

A third of what i am told to hope for most....

I am not a poet. I am not a bard. I sing for MY emotions..involving others, much too hard..that is, at least with sincerity.

Im no stranger to cliches. They are the fake man's dearest friends.

They sing them. Proclaim "love conquers all". "peace on earth". "home is where you make it". Overused....but despite that they taught me of love. Of might. Of justness, and common sense.

Then I am not a real poet.

What am i then? It's difficult to say...I'll just call myself the fickled life sentimental then. Always closing "with love" because of my hopeless romanticism...


For i notice when the california skies are red, on fire. When the sunset stabs the skies, causes them to bleed. When a girl's beauty has days of potential verse. I notice the beauty...I feel it. At that, I am concrete...


Oh, and reguarding the masses, i do not care..I am my own narsicistic poet.

I am content with my own human emotion. with love i close...because it's with love i want to feel. It is mediocrity.

I am content with my own mediocrity.

-with love

This one is garbage lol

-with love

I like the sincerity here, Fickle, good job with this one.


Les

Thanks. Why did this forum's activity go down so much?

-with love