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plagiartist.
Free verse № 43255
The Poet
He smithed the words from
The anvil of his pen
Like coins spilling in piles of thought.
His dog lay at his feet
In deep, regular breaths
Of contentment.
The sun was setting and rising
On his life in shortening
Sentences of people who
Came and went through decades and minutes.
All things had become music
In notes only he could hear
And see as folly and love.
Death, then, was no longer
The dreaded machine
Coming, always coming.
But, rather, a sweet darkness
Like the dog sleeping at his feet
Pulling him into the eternity of his life.
7 comments
You weren't suppose to delete the poem (fetus) Brandon. You were suppose to debate the opinion of felled fetus' everywhere and why they matter too. That is what a poet would have done, and also; he or she would not of erased it. Because then i would of told you a secret, and you would of went ohhhhhhhhhh, and we would have been friends. Forever. P.s. the activity above seems strange for a male model. It sound more like something a teacher would write. You lied to me professor, shame on you! I'm sure she was hot when she was younger though and still is. What makes you think i don't like old people?
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Permit me:
He had smithed the words;
his anvilled pen spilled coins of thought
that piled like riches at his feet.
His dog lay at his feet, content;
its deep, regular breaths bespoke no other need.
The sun set and rose, rose and set
as he shortened the sentences of people
whose decades fell like minutes,
mindless of his own.
All things became music
whose notes he alone could hear:
folly and love played melodies
he kept to the rhythm of his heart.
Death soon lost its thrall:
no more the dreaded machine, advancing, merciless.
A sweetened darkness, empty,
honest as the dog sleeping at his feet
urged him on toward eternity.
Try to wean out the things that sound poetic; focus on the idea that inspired the poem instead. this could be cut in half, and be better still. Besides, you are just responding to my voice. You like it. No one likes their own, at first. Remember the first time you heard yourself recorded? How strange it sounded? How you cringed? It is much like that. Be certain. Fill nothiung. Pare away. Marianne Moore said that poetry is about real frogs in imaginary gardens. Show me warts and mucous! I want to smell the musk, the mud.
I have looked at your other poems, and I am not certain what you were trying to do with them, so I shall leave them un-commented-upon.
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