On what makes me a POET

I sit in taxis and think of spokenword like this.

When I wrote this
I was feeling a tad inspired -
Was also tired but couldn't erase
The words the pen perspires.

It was like magic -
The illusion of words moving
Like taxis through the inner city
Of my maze-like mind.

People tend to get lost in this labyrinth.
These deep thoughts drown out
And diffuse bit-by-bit into the abyss
That is my mind's cloud.

On rainy days such as this,
The precipitation sustains the nation's
Internal bliss - hidden by hardness -
Food for thought : brought for harvest.

Have you pondered
On why the writers write?
Have you wondered
Why the pen wields might? -

Deeper wounds than swords
Do words cut through.
They can reach the soul,
They can reach the GOlD -

So why would I undermine
The talent it takes to write?
Why let such value depreciate within in my mind,
When I can sell it at a higher price?

A price that pays the consumer,
By enriching their thoughts and delusions.
Their dreams come to life much truer
And old nightmares become new ones -

All with a few words,
We can captivate minds.
Whether true or absurd,
POETry escapes time.

As a POET,I am a :
Practitioner Of Expressive Talent;
Philosopher Oding Existential Turmoil;
Poetic Oddity Escaping Time.

Time's Movement Stands Still,
And Still I Stand,
I Am A POET.

Reviews

[Lethu]

I see you, yes daar. Back seat pimping in a Quantam gazing into space - your inner mind where poetic activities take place. Dope s**t. Gawdly.