Every Word You’re Right
Every word you're right
With every word you write
If it's true to you.
Hear now linguists
your practice is altruistic
because you prove by example that there can still be connection in this modern day,
That communication is possible and it can still effect in many ways people; effect them deeply.
Verbally cathartic are your prose
And I intend to be sure that each and every one of you knows
You matter.
It matters to me
that you take the time to put in the effort to put into words written, or in print,the contents of your mind building onto the conglomerates value, and you are scrawling out what can be left behind
Once we can't write any more. We pen the foundations of the future.
On the day that we pas, after which our corporeal interactions will lay dormant;at that time
these words you have given the world to read
can convey
or inform
Past your own timeline. They are what we really can leave behind.
That's why words are all I've got.
Luckily words are all I need; so thank you poets, practitioners,or you who read this; thank you for sharing.
Thank you for the daring act of throwing yourself into the scrutiny of the public and for giving the part of you that lies within what you've written. Thank you for what you do, I appreciate you authors, and felt thanks should be given.
P.s.
Here is am old thing I'd written in response to a challenge asking for us to modernize Shakespeare's sonnet number 18. The title I is a joke based on. The title "sonnet 18" but it is in reference to the likelihood that the person Shakespeare was talking about was more likely to be what my title is because in his times people married so young and yadda yadda... anyways here it is:
[So Not 18]
Could I say you are like mid-day some time after spring?
You're the summer when the sun is out, but are hotter still to me.
A beauty truly flourishing, and twice as nice as a sweet young thing should be.
You're ravishing nature is prevalent, yet its permanence won’t ring to infinite so easily.
Ultimately each beauteous thing will find age’s presence when its green beauty turns to brown.
So I think I'll preempt the crashing fade out now, and jot this down.
The lovely shine that is you, before it folds into the tidal-times destruction of what used to only be called "now".
The truth is that you cannot stretch summer beyond the brow
of it’s longest doggy-days,
nor pull it past the chill of fall,
or into winters grays.
While even summer still leaves sunburns
and has no permanence at all,
you bring peace to the eye and in the mind inspire thoughts of all
the strong pursuits of longevity through the use of rhapsody,
to which my heart now falls.
You are a hottie with a body, hot enough to sound like stolen property, but this temporary visionary treat
has one true fate,
and that is its retreat.
Yet, for but a moment,
I'd swear the hands of time are abstinent from their glare on you. Their corrosive course on your fairness, is a natural force who, without too much care for suggestions in direction,
should only be denied it’s rancor through my pens celebration of the skin you're within,
with which is imbued
a shine of the kind that needs to be mine
and from it my words bloom.
Sweetly you are the exception sweetie,
as here with my words I’ll paint your beauty to this page.
Death wouldn’t have a chance for erasing this.
These, my turns in phrase; my praise.
Where time leaves wrinkled lines along it’s path down a face,
you by this truth written,
seem to last past the grave,
almost untouched by any ill fate.
A great truth, the proof of the scrawling on this paper stage. Without refute this fact reiterates in our day by day;
that as we live, breath, think, and read there will not come a day
that your blooming esthetic will let me forget it,
nor will it be lost for posterities sake! Your beauty, my keepsake.