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Why the Words are Written

Fine art is a conduit of untapped beauty
many willingly risk their existence for.

So how much strain must I allow
upon my mortal life, to ensure a line
of poetry is deserving of reality,
amongst the works of other poets
orbiting around my own?

The solar system
of creativity is vast and limitless,
and how else to ensure remembrance
is cast upon the shadows presented by the words
I use, than to make certain the stain
of forgetfulness is never granted opportunity.

But to freely write this point of opinion,
barely begins to touch the truth of circumstance,
actions requiring a mandatory place,
else the promise I make myself
will be turned into transgressionary failure.

What muse, would stem the tides of bleak ambition,
in replace for tears of happiness, and make the hope
I hide inside myself, become as real as breathing?

For years, I have hidden the weakness
I am unfortunate to hold inside my chest,
but this woman of inspiration would set free
the treasures, like a wren from a cage,
and make all that I have swallowed into me
an exterior force for the ears, and if this melody
is proven accurate, then perhaps I ought to write
for the length of time she remains by my side.

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