For phrases plundered,
when a poet cries,
silences swathe
in surfieted sighs,
Percolating pain
in paper’s price,
these wasted words,
would never suffice.
For phrases plundered,
when a poet cries,
silences swathe
in surfieted sighs,
Percolating pain
in paper’s price,
these wasted words,
would never suffice.
Oh how beautiful, makes me want to cry again.
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awh, i’m sorry. But thanks jac 🙂
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You know what, poet;s words are never wasted.
Beautifully penned down by you.
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guess, I just wanted to hear that
Thanks to you!
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And you heard it….
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Succinctly aching, sis..words may be insufficient but, as u display here–they r indeed lovely.:
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yeah, it aches a little…
when your words go unnoticed, or misunderstood or they backfire… they’re wasted.
Sometimes as much as you want to say, or write it down… you just can’t bring yourself above the fear that your words might again be simply wasted words.
It hurts when well intentioned words are turned down for no good reason by people who’s heads are fogged with their own problems, their grieves, thoer prejudice, and ego.
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Wow–I’d like to know who inspired this poetic expression…
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oh, no one… that’s just my life. haha. xD
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U r preaching to the choir tho😎😸😌🙏🏼
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(“Preaching to the choir”, in case u aren’t acquainted with this phrase, is an aphorism that says basically: “you are talking to someone who agrees with u totally.”😉😸👍🏽)
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