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"A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day."
~Emily Dickinson
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Poems catch so much from the mind of the author and provide a mystery for the reader to break down. Some can be straight forward—as easy as describing a winter scene in a 'poetic' (see, get it? I'll get my tip later) fashion.
Others, however, can be commentary on the world around them—on the dangers of banned books, on the peril of hatred in the hearts of man.
Some seek the inner heart of the poet and let the readers glimpse what makes the poet tick.
Regardless, poems are an important genre of writing that will always present as puzzle pieces in the background of the world.
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In this terrifying world that we're finding ourselves in, when do stories die? At the hands of those that ban books? The wolves? The zealots? Those easily frightened? Questions we should ask before it becomes too late.
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Sometimes memories can feel like bottomless depths we swim through. We can get caught up in such painful nostalgia, or held back by what can seem like insurmountable trauma. Will we be caught in the current or will we continue to swim?
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Honestly, sometimes a poem is what it is. A pretty way to describe a setting. Mother Nature's winter blanket settles on the land.
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