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I wrote, in words, without the beats. I told
you tales in prose. Now, I prefer, in verse, iambic.
Amazing how words flow; smooth like silk. Ink falls
To paper with meaning bleeding out. Time
Stops to listen, ears sharp and poised.
My twitter is clearer, my ideas scurry,
Clothed by deception. I, Writer, fade away.
The Reader becomes central. What you wish
To see is here. The unwanted love child
of words, that bastard Truth, stares in your eyes.


One Comment

    • A friend
    • Posted October 12, 2007 at 10:31 pm
    • Permalink

    Your verse has great meaning, i hope that the beats return to the words you write and then The Write will be central.

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