This evening, I read some Poe, some Shelley, some Keats, some Dickman.
I read them out loud.
I read them with a British accent.
I tried to translate them into Spanish.
I'm not sure why I decide to kill time in this strange manner.
[Just in case you were wondering- the above lines ARE NOT MY POEM. They are just the ravings of a woman who should have been medicated many moons ago]
Art thou a poem?
I'd like to be a walking poem.
Most Helpful Guy
Mope is an anagram for poem, which seems kind of perfect.
Also, Poe is three quarters of poet.
I've had too much coffee and you should write more. 😋
Most Helpful Girl
Poetry comes from the heart.
You see my long tight curls and you think what a pain it must be
You see my caramel skin popping with melanin
A curse or a gift from god that I will not burn
I am a Nubian Queen
Just like me my sisters will also be...
Man I tried to make it up as I went.