just thinking about poets big and small...
Dylan, Edgar, Dorothy, and me?
raged against the dying of the light
and Edgar Allan heard that knocking
in the night.
Dorthy Parker wrote of life and lived it
amongst the elite
sinking into depression
often feeling the depths of defeat.
And I am no one, except what I be
writing thoughts in poetry
exposing my nakedness, raw and free.
Why do I do it? I ask myself and know
I'm reaching out to the universe
because my little world has let me go.
Inside this mind is a mountain
stacked high with memories and dreams
pictures flashing by as windows
of what was, is, and those wishful scenes.
There are times, deep in the caverns
all hopes come crashing down.
When reality mines the future
depleting the foundation of its ground.
It seems these once living poets
are no different than you or I.
They felt this life too deeply.
Sang their song so eternally sweetly.
And, as it is appointed once, they died.
Poetry by Kathy Lockhart
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Written on 2016-12-16 at 19:05
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