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Picture Credits:
From out of the snow that is seldom seen,
I come to life beneath the thoughts of a child,
Only to melt beneath green kisses of spring,
And her wet warm smile,
Then to hover in white wispy mist,
Sheet metal visions or little white lies,
before vanishing away like fairy gifts,
Into the infinity of deep blue skies.
I reappear as dark visions in the night,
Dark lonesome visions in dresses of white,
That haunt most poets and force them to write,
Day after day, night after night,
On impulse and bouts of manic inspiration,
Inspired by woman child of mortal kind,
A muse of difficult and psychotic creation,
Who multiplies the smallest mind,
Causing the poet to expose his heart,
In the rare form of mystical art,
Or just that of a whore's bare behind,
Then leaving them alone with brainwashed critics,
Who fail to understand anything beyond,
The gracious subject of maddened fanatics,
Old trains, dead mothers, and lovers long gone,
And the stunned stupid poets not knowing as to why,
They were moved to write such verses,
Patiently sing whispery songs to the sky,
In little random notes of curses,
The side effect of Prozac causing them to salivate,
And their eyes to twitch in red rimmed sockets,
Then loosing the vision to create,
They slap the pens back into their pockets,
And lash out in anger hard core words,
Too shameful to name in front of birds,
A wing song blows the trashy words back in,
To flapping mortal mouths while they are yet yapping,
And then,
Madness gets,
Into the pen...
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