A Good Blog is Hard to Find

Where does poetry go when it dies within my mind? It is quickly replaced with the pain from its loss. I do not mourn the coming of the sun, I only wish the failing night did not steal away my words. I have become lost in this contest of will. I struggle with it weekly and yet I cannot make the right decision to turn away. For to turn away from my addiction is to turn my back on words that I love…

How does a poet live when he can no longer write poetry? Does he weep tears of imagery or is instead his sorrow suddenly solidified by the reality of his sadness? I know that I miss my mind even as I feel the scars building upon my chest. Would it be enough to kill my soul in exchange for the beauty of a perfect phrase? What would…

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