Oh Sweet Lord. What Else Can I Say? - Poem by William Burgamy
Dear whomever you are.
A realization in regards to, as you may yourself fully be aware of,
My grammar flails In seizures
Through unrelenting work ethic.
I am NOT a Marinate to be tinkered & toyed with by
My greatly narcissistic depression.
Only bearing resonation with the identity of an inclusive thinker concerned with the Problems of a generation.
A generation that learns from the struggles of the past & deduced the challenges of Generations whose great, fantastic, spectacular,
Enigmatic, emphatically, dastardly,
Awesomely, formidable, ancestors are only being thought of months from now.
How are the ramblings of a drunkard with whom which,
My name must be shared more sovereign in the eyes of God,
Than the anguish bore of my trees altruistic?
Spreading roots through the cross-indexed calamity of punctual locals, as-
It is only the burden of constipated storm clouds bringing so much as a grind to
Their galloping stillness.
A silenced quill is no longer a letter forming instrument, but future evidence in a Game of Clue at reality's coffee table.
For the ignorance of A(few}men have muzzled the prose by which the Sensei of Eons were to open his pupils to the light as he peers into their souls & asks...
'Who are you to not feel existential validation? '...
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Are the ideals of my prose more impotent in validity than an inebriated cretin's rhetoric?
Do tell me Scholars of associated genders. Do... Tell me...
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