A poet writes what he writes; the reader reads what he reads. The real poem, the poem of the mind, exists when the two collide and belongs - exclusively - to both and neither of them. - mce
A man of words and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at your door And when your door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead Indeed.
I write and I work. Words have their place. Deeds have their place. Anonymous doggerel pretending to be literate commentary doesn't. Whomever you are, grow up. Sign your name - if you have balls - (which I doubt) and, oh yes, read better poetry. - Mike
The man of deeds who lacks the word is simple, stupid and absurd. He works and struggles all the day for nothing more than mindless pay. He loves the rich and thinks them smart for gaining through their lack of heart. He loves his boundaries; worships rules; considers those who break them fools. His mind is closed; his world is small; he has no words to think at all. His conversation tends to stink because he never learned to think. His only drive is buying more; he's little but a Hoople whore. He does and does and that's enough, if he can just keep buying stuff. He never questions what he's told; he's just a thing that's bought and sold. And when it is his time to die; he'll lack the words to wonder why.
A man of words and not of deeds,
ReplyDeleteIs like a garden full of weeds
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at your door
And when your door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead Indeed.
I write and I work. Words have their place. Deeds have their place. Anonymous doggerel pretending to be literate commentary doesn't. Whomever you are, grow up. Sign your name - if you have balls - (which I doubt) and, oh yes, read better poetry. - Mike
ReplyDeleteHey Anonymous, back at you...
ReplyDeleteThe man of deeds who lacks the word
is simple, stupid and absurd.
He works and struggles all the day
for nothing more than mindless pay.
He loves the rich and thinks them smart
for gaining through their lack of heart.
He loves his boundaries; worships rules;
considers those who break them fools.
His mind is closed; his world is small;
he has no words to think at all.
His conversation tends to stink
because he never learned to think.
His only drive is buying more;
he's little but a Hoople whore.
He does and does and that's enough,
if he can just keep buying stuff.
He never questions what he's told;
he's just a thing that's bought and sold.
And when it is his time to die;
he'll lack the words to wonder why.
LOL
ReplyDelete