love of poetry

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Once the Poet is done psychically with his or her craft With the vernacular of his or her masterpieces It’s the role of the readers to add mentally missing pieces
 I was depressed at a young age, Becoming a new person every day, Never crying, emotions looking for a way out. It came to me three quarters into sixth grade. I paused from running away to stare at a golden page.
The thoughts put in words and the words giving thought, A cycle of emotion, As put by Frost.   The emotions run sweet, Through my body like cream; An unreal sensation
If I can't close my eyes and imagine the endless metaphors  there is no need for these eyes of mine If I can't sway to the flows and effortless quotes that glide from mouths
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