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@ericawordsmith

*bows* Thank you! Thank you!

Gosh! That poem’s great! I like the feeling and emotion running away with the words as if by a withered weed upon the edges of a road whereof the wind tears continually upon it’s retched back. Very nice!

Something like this would often confuse others of the lesser-minded; meaning those who do not read, write, or otherwise interact at all with poetry on any scale. – Not demeaning those at all, but merely stating the obvious. They have no knowledge of it; they are less knowledged…and less privileged…obviously missing out on something of something…but that’s just my weird and somewhat obnoxious opinion and it really doesn’t matter that much to me, anyway. …savvy? – (sorry, rabbit trail) But to others of like mind, this would seem a work of art as a great painting is great in the mind of a fellow painter. It matters not if the form or other things of such attributes as unto poetry flow or not. (This is how it should be, to me. You must be able to understand the poet’s emotions and feelings.) Of course there are exceptions…those are also something of import to me. Pardon. I just contradicted myself. But my meaning through this is that there is a place and time for all things when it comes to poetry. This is not for the whole of this post, but still…you get my gist…right?

This is the epitome of what poetry is. The setting of emotions, whether deep or light, upon the page by use of words. This is truly the work of a wordsmith…very fitting title, by the way. For the tag, that is.

…do you really want me to critique it?

(I think coffee is an essential attribute that is needed when writing poetry. Otherwise the overall feel of it will be somewhat dampened. Not that that’s a bad thing, for if poetry is dampened it is actually most times better than it would be. …?)

(Another post script: This all is the wanderings of my mind laid in a half-mentioned form unto this post. It does leave me sometimes like the tree in Autumn…which reminds me; I need to work on this poem on the beginning of Autumn. I’m writing it in the Whitman form: long words and meant to be read as if reading a novel or book on a drifty subject. There I go again. Drifty isn’t even a word. I SHALL CEASE AND DESIST!)