Getting back into the flow of writing, mostly with wordplay and poems. I'm a creative soul, from childhood to middle age, and my joy is to produce new things the world has never seen before. I'm an educator from the USA working as a college professor of lit and music. I'm learning to love myself little by little.
Each Robin has a red breast, dripping blood,
And ev'ry beaten heart, a bony cage,
And still we sing and bathe ourselves in mud;
From heart to fingers, ink still stains the page.
The pump has sprung a leak for you to read:
A farewell note to say it's not your fault.
Defeated, vacant, organ's solo, freed,
Its one regret: when rushing red does start,
Then all the few who shared his cryptic home
Would stay, abandoned, locked in its wet prison
And want for nourishment, dry like the bone
That stores them, wond'ring: Has he sunk, or risen?
My liver wryly rues its ill-picked name,
The irony hath perced to the roote,
But not for lung; inflated ego slain;
The spleen's been vented, kidney stoned, a floater.
When ev'ry self from self has been divided,
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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