Verse
I think poetry is mainly just
different souls
saying the same thing.
Look at me.
The world is beautiful.
I am in pain.
I am in love.
They’re the same thing, really, but
the world is beautiful
and horrible.
But hope springs
(you know the next bit)
and though it be
strange-wild-dark-hurtful-overwhleming
strange-wild-dark-hurtful-overwhleming
the world is beautiful.
Look at it
look at me
look with me.
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Oh I love this! The last 3 lines are great. Recently a friend of mine was doing a poetry reading in Tel Aviv and the rules were to read a poem of your own and a poem by someone else and the poems had to be about death. But it was then clarified that, in some ways, all poems are about death. So, thus, don’t stress about the selections. Brilliant, right?