poetry writing

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Not at my beck(sport from Stefan George)
My Written Voice   My voice is weak, whispery, withering I have to repeat myself twice, three times. Words are trapped behind my lips Waiting on my tongue The words I wish to speak
Poetry is not the written word Or ink gracefully and artistically drawn on paper Poetry is a fond memory that comes to us  unexpectedly -  In the most sporatic times And brings a smile to our face
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