Left Unsaid.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's all too dramatic.

Submitted: April 24, 2007

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Submitted: April 24, 2007

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I started to think that art was dead.
No. Regardless, it continues running through my head.
Meaningless dabbles into writing go unread.
Periods of drawn out thoughts better left unsaid.
I am no poet, and I possess no wit.
But I try and try, regardless of the rhyme of it.
So I sit and think, and whine a bit.
Capture the thought, and delicately smother it.
Definitions run relentless,
Spewing shit like no one's business.
Infatuation with spoken word,
Afraid to voice my own or to let it be heard.
Relay these lines daringly,
And dedicate emotions sparingly,
For when I try a bit too soundly -
None of this comes out profoundly.
Grammatically I write, fanatically -
A conquest of my own abhorration, guilty but with no relation.
Perhaps this is all just too dramatic,
Fuck it - let's keep it static.
I started to think that art was dead.
No. Regardless, it continues running through my head.
Meaningless dabbles into writing go unread.
Periods of drawn out thoughts better left unsaid.


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