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Edited by Martin Septim: 3/22/2014 10:53:51 PM
3

To be a poet

To mould the clay of words Into a form rarely seen by others Is a poet's job To say what can't be said To spill the thousand thoughts inside their head And to paint with them As Picasso they sit With brushes dancing upon the easel Of a clear night sky Ready they are to paint The beautiful clouds that do all but taint The blackness they pass And as the clouds fade off Into the night like ships on the ocean So the poet stills
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