Poems are nothing, but paint.
Splatters of thoughts on a canvas.
The brimming feelings
spilling over and staining the page.
Not living, not active.
Just thoughts, impressions.
Visons of the past,
collecting into a beautiful lament.
Never anything but a stain.
What has come, and what might be,
based on the marks of that before.
Every word stuck to the page,
seeks to burn me, and violate my mind.
They do not express my life, and my love.
They lie to a world outside.
No word can tell of my heart.
No word can scream my fury.
They only speak in gentle terms.
Gentle, sour, shallow breaths.
That spell out what they can never dream,
never hope, to truly tell of.
Begone, liars and charlatans.
I am a god of life, and light, and action.
You shake and shiver in my glorious shadow.
I hereby sentence you to banishment.
Henceforth from my sight, and I'll be forever more.
Mine own herald to my glory.
However meek, and unimportant.
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