Poetry in its simplest form is the perpetuation of redundancy.

How many flowers must wallow in metaphors

Or hearts broken only to be mended with time.

When will the lonely souls find their makers

And walk those desolate roads no more.

What poet hasn’t suffered in turmoil

Or poured lonely tears on the blank white page

To produce melodic verbiage that they will only understand.

All of us addicted to our certain addictions.

Whether it be to wallow in the drink

Or dabble in the more serious affairs that breed persons alike

As well as infect the idiosyncrasies of ones own identity.

What mental deficiencies skulk in the corners of most of us.

Bi-polar goes both ways when crossing the street

As the sad word slinger slumps in his chair

Writing the circumference of a five sided square.

See, one can ink nonsense such as these.

We all do it at one time or another

There is no shame while in the act of learning.

We’re all friends here looking through the void

Trying to see if the abyss will smile back,

Giving us that one chance to pen our masterpiece.

We are for ever pupils in the classroom of life.

Some courses may be harsh and some may not

But know that wisdom is a fleeting thing

That few hold within in their hands

And even they are confined to the shackles of redundancy.

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