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the poem inside

people express astonishment upon reading my poems

wondering how it is that i write … declaring poetry too difficult for them

i don’t know, i have to reply

yes, i think about it

but it’s the way i think almost all the time

i’ll look out the window and a poem

will start building itself in my mind

fragment by fragment

one half-thought at a time

life and love and death and eternity come welling forth

forming themselves into words and sentences

how am i to explain this?

only by writing about it is it truly expressed

and perhaps not even then

a poem lives inside of me

sometimes creeping like a glacier

meandering like a lazy stream

or exploding like a geyser

can this possibly make sense to one who doesn’t feel it?

when the muse strikes and the spirit comes upon me …

i can’t help but release the poem inside

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