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A Poet’s Lament
We ten thousand poets, pen in hand,
scream outward in anger with our might,
our words flow like blood upon the land
as ten thousand blinded by the light ---
while ten thousand lovers do no right.
With ten thousand muses from above,
each one involved in us making love,
us losing love, us forsaking love,
poets always seem to have it worse;
our broken hearts seeping endless verse.
As ten thousand souls, misunderstood,
in relationships we know that would
bruise us, bang us, slam us to the ground,
we thousand poets will soon be found
explaining pain to the world around.
With ten million single men out there,
ten million single women somewhere,
what would happen if we wisely chose
a good-hearted mate from one of those —
a returned love that we could share?
(I wrote this drivel, by the way.)
2007-09-15
06:08:53
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6 answers
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asked by
Doc Watson
7
in
Poetry