a picture of a typewriter
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I love to read poets whose poems don’t
make sense to me
as we sit around the table and try to see
what they see.
To find oneself in a place and time trying
to better understand the poem’s
rhythm and rhyme,
To see how deep we may go on a journey
to nowhere
‘cause no one really knows but the poet,
whose poems are sometimes the butt of
a good joke,
and if you don’t get it someone will let
you know
The sound of words when only the poet
knows.
Sometimes when a thought comes deep
deep down from my soul,
I too can write lines of words nobody
knows
but the people who sit at the table and
read and write poems.
Nobody knows where their words come
from, deep deep down in their souls.
The game only they know.
The words of others speak to our souls