I Sit Here Alone in My Poetry

I sit here alone in my poetry
Weak words, meek metaphors
The imperfect tools at my disposal
As I attempt to articulate
My thoughts, my emotions
And, those illusions which exist in a space
Between or beyond thinking and feeling
Enigmas words can’t even being to explain
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I sit here alone in my poetry
I wield impotent words
Words that are too soft for
All my thoughts, emotions, enigmas
Words incapable of inspiring passion
Or, impregnating imagination
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I sit here alone in my poetry
Telling myself to be quiet
To not even try to express my soul
After all, no one’s listening
I am all by myself
Thus my words
Whether weak, meek, soft
Will never fall upon another ear
Therefore,  what is the point of speaking?
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I sit here alone in my poetry
A place of bitter seasons
The frigid, the feverish, the insensate
All seasons attack with lethality
Each with equal cruelty
And I face them by myself
All the while asking why
I choose to endure them at all
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I sit here alone in my poetry