I wrote the following last night as just a purging of thought, and as it turns out, it is ironically poetic. Well, at least as I was rewriting it to digital form, I could feel a rhythm, so I simply broke up the prose structure.
When did I stop writing poetry?
I used to write poetry.
Some of it laughable,
But I wrote it just the same.
I thought in poetry;
I felt in it.
I found solace and passion and expression in it.
I was in love in my poetry.
I swam in heartbreak there too.
I was angst-y.
I was inspired.
I laughed and felt joy;
I cried and felt sorrow--
All in my poetry.
There was a time I lived in my poetry.
Anyway, there it is. The last sentiment doesn’t seem to have the same pattern, but it went along the lines of losing my poetry and not knowing how to get it back. Well, I can let you be the judge of whether or not the above is truly poetic, but I did enjoy writing in stanza for at least a moment.
Until next time, my friends.
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