poetry-MISSING NOTES
Poets die everyday..so does poetry..I know,
Night crawls with happy pains,
Words then are thrust upon the paper,
Forgotten blues gather to sing,
Absorbed and still thinking,
Now they begin,jarring pious thoughts
Now they dont,drunk with blue haze of pain..
I hear the guitar cry,
And the missing notes fall back into place...
Humming blood streams forth,
Red ribbons flutter and sing,
The violet dagger scrapes the paper,
The pen splutters and writhes..
Chains in the paper,the staccato beats within,
Poetry dies almost every single day,
Mutilated..yet I see,
The sheet of the soul has poetry on it,
There,the missing notes fall back into place..
Night crawls with happy pains,
Words then are thrust upon the paper,
Forgotten blues gather to sing,
Absorbed and still thinking,
Now they begin,jarring pious thoughts
Now they dont,drunk with blue haze of pain..
I hear the guitar cry,
And the missing notes fall back into place...
Humming blood streams forth,
Red ribbons flutter and sing,
The violet dagger scrapes the paper,
The pen splutters and writhes..
Chains in the paper,the staccato beats within,
Poetry dies almost every single day,
Mutilated..yet I see,
The sheet of the soul has poetry on it,
There,the missing notes fall back into place..