Smoke Through a Keyhole

Tonight I relax and listen to Tchaikovsky like many night gone away.
The soaring melody always kindles the poetry alive in me.

I cut the strings and earn my wings,
As if a writer like the ones that came before,
Paying my dues and waiting for freedom in the breeze.

I beg the skies for originality as tonight I become the poet.
I beg to find some undefined style and rhythm.
I shall write one night a symphony or a Shakespearean tragedy,
that will be honored and collect dust on book shelves for years.

I live for the moment and leave no leftovers on the table of life,
When death is never a simple task,
and must be accounted for, discussed, but never feared.

Life moves fast.
Ideas, moments, and drums are beaten and never echoed again.
Life is a doorway and time flies like smoke through a keyhole.
I Write, speak, and feel what I must and can afford at the time.

I leave no change in my pocket to squander at heavens door,
I leave behind analogies of my dwindling amateur thoughts,
and echo a universal sound.

Life is not rehearsed, and the notes are yours to display
Say what is required.
Attack that which is desired.
play the part.
sing the song.
love when you can.
cry when you must.
chime in when possible.
Disrupt when it is unacceptable.
Start over when the soul demands it.
There are no rules,
and no parameter for the original.

Rushing through life becomes a life of its own.
Life and death to a poet,
are the same songs played throughout time.

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