Precious Stones

Pain doesn't have to be the universal crash-course workshop for art, but poetry is a thing like no other.

It flows from fingertips and mouth, easy like Monday morning.

Teeth grit to hold tongue and thought and sentiment.

Rhythm eases the bite, rhyme loosens the jaw.

Hope and aspirations tumble past lips like stones,

Each pass lightens the load.

This poem is about: 


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