This Poet Always Lives To Write Again

Icy love of yesterday
Cold and dreary this history
Will today bring forth warmth?
Rays of warmth shining in grace


Upon dreams exists hope
As far as it is to grasp
It's a vivid sight to behold
To strive to reach, someday
Penned by the creator
And the call for something


The poet freezes, still
As if it was still yesterday
Punishing words yes hurt
But feelings muted
Are icicles
Stabbing through the vein


Then what leads the heart?
When the coldness goes into the warmth?
A storm of introversion


He wants to say so much
Rehearses it all in his head
Only then when it is time
To come on all out
It gets taken over by anxiety
And nothing comes out of this

But the poet he fights
Nothing is as depressing at it seems
So many battles
But the war is his to somehow win


There is no deadbeat manor
Art it shines within
This man has gained anything in supposed matter
But the release he bleeds upon his dying wishes
Of his sacred pen


And magic is made
Another part of this personal universe created
Standing on its own unique perspective
At least that is what the creator really feels
Fighting to realize
It is useless trying to impress
Something that was never there in the first place


No words to throw away
Sharing even if there was no one around
Just because one might feel left out in the cold
Does not mean they cannot dream of a paradise
Of sunshine singing its warmth in harmony
All the way out loud


To those who care
This poet smiles so wide
Realizing the few
Are a billion times
Of sacred rejoice
Love and honor all around
Beyond the art he loves the most


All in all
Through it all
There is an accomplishment
That many who cannot depth thought
Would never understand


This poet has grown even more
Through this poem you see here
And more that will make him better
In the end


Warming love from the future
A faith this poet now beholds
No matter where everything goes
He knows things will only get better
Never-ending dreams straight ahead


If you cannot understand him
Never be afraid to ask him what he meant


Do you know who he is?
He stands before you
With his own blood inside his pen


Explore his hidden realm
It's always a pleasure for him
To hear what you have to say


His poetry may not mean anything to many
But to him it means something…


This poet always lives to write again

by James Darwin Smith II

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