The Black & White Poet

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destined is the death of a poet

Destined is the Death of a  Poet

I don't want the poet in me
to  inform me
of its retirement

My inability to define
My current state of desire
(or distaste)
is troubling me.

 My inability to remove the embankment…
…that buried my spirit…
is bothering me.

Has it really become that well-founded?
Not even poetry
can leak through its cracks?
When did I establish this?
Here…
In this place…

I remember the days when-
storms had the ability to kill happiness
and happiness had the ability to birth storms
I could write about bygones and
my soul seemed as tangible as my body

There was a time when
words fell out like quick sand
but now,
every day that passes
I have come to recognize
that
not much
has been able to get through this embankment
that I have established

the foundation to this obstruction began
when a love had died….
This embankment has fulfilled its design
But I am ready to kill this hindrance


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destined is the death of a poet