Writing poetry helps my walk through the minefield that is my mental health. Sometimes it turns out something like what you see below. Words or sentence that often make little sence. But that is the joys of writing. Often something without Meaning.
As the rains began to fall. Waiting by to hear her call. Like a song bird of my heart. Where the winds breaks apart. No more does her walk impart Or call out sweet to my ears. Alone in her cage of fears Alone the song bird of my heart. Watching Rivers of tears that flow From where no one can know. Hidden from the world in disguise I waited again yet before my eyes Reshaping fears withhold the limits. From bewildered eyes without spirits. That slay the inner dragon unseen. Without aims for that which never has been. © Pat Fitzgerald 2021
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