AO (December 7,1989 / Mexico)

Me

The poet speaks beyond his words
The poet writes in rhythmic verse
To which he feels true.

But my poet’s heart
My poet’s soul
No longer holds
The warmth of letters dear
To his heart and soul.

Oh what has happen to my poetic hands?
Have they withered with the passing of time?
Have they become numb
From the everyday assault of common sense?

Common sense what a hideous word.
Common sense what an enslaving word.

Oh what has happened to my poetic hands?
Oh common sense please free my poetic hands
Please I beg you
Free my poetic hands
So the beacon of inspiration
Can guide them to the poet
That speaks beyond his words
And writes in rhythmic verse
To which he feels true.

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