Poetry rises high above The green grass,
The tall gray towers,
And even higher above The clouds.
It shines down on my face And hands at the crack of Every dawn and opens my Eyes.
It is now a new day,
and Poetry is still there,
Taring away at my nerves,
Causing my hair to Recede.
It taunts me,
Calls me names,
Shackles my feet
And locks my hands Together tight,
Palms open and out,
Like a fresh pair of Wings.
Poetry are the wild Rabbits that browse the Outside perimeters of Prison gates,
The One-Too-Many-Plus Years of my life spent in a Living hell;
Leaving me pondering And staring off into space
While wondering what it Could possibly feel like to Hold my baby's hands Again or to taste my Momma's cooking
And then being able to Write about it
Because I knew that Somewhere in it...
There just "HAD" to be a Poem!
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This Poems Story
It paints pictures with words to anyone who reads it. But sends different images to each individual readers according to their life experiences.