My life is my own, for better or worse,
I might as well put my feelings to verse,
Each poem of mine, unique from the rest,
As I subconsciously strive to do my best,
Random rabble translated into rhyme,
Writing to withstand the trails of time,
Language flowing from the subconscious,
Reaching my fingers, a gift so gracious,

People always ask how I aspire to write,
But the answer is that my effort is slight,
Inside of my mind, poetics are plentiful,
Words arise, surprising by the mouthful,
There is an instinct to rhyme with prose,
Blossoming inside me like a fragrant rose,
This instinct guides my mind with care,
Allowing me to write and flaunt with flair,

Doses of instruction: the icing on the cake,
Refinement made for perspicacity’s sake,
I am so studious, a student ever learning,
The taste of knowledge leaves me yearning,
The English Language comes naturally to me,
A tool for me to utilize and by which I’m free,
Hearkening to halcyon times for writing,
And thus, for that pinnacle, I keep fighting,

Fighting for improvement and for dignity,
Ever getting better, striving for serendipity,
Each step I take is just one of many more,
Ever reflecting on what I’ve done before,
My life is my own, for better and for worse,
So I might as well put my feelings to verse,
Instructed by instinct, putting a pen to paper,
Poetics cutting through my mind like a saber.



2 thoughts on “Poetics

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