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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=579511" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>This is Not Poetry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This isn't poetry<br> <br> <br> These are just the ramblings of a madman.<br> <br> poetry is written by educated men, about deep thoughts, splashed with <br> color and sprinkeld with verses that I can't even understand.<br> but this is not poetry, <br> These are just the ramblings of man barely sane, dancing on the razor sharp edge <br> of madness, flirting with insanity, mumbling to the friends I created long ago, <br> dancing with these vague ethreal beings that lurk beneath the glaze<br> of my tortued and red rimmed eyes.....and liking it. <br> Poetry is written by great men, but I'm am not great<br> Poetry is written by wise men who can string together rythmic impassioned words<br> that soften the heart, and ease the troubled soul, but I am not wise, <br> Poetry is written by men of deep feeling but my feelings, have been numbed <br> by whatever chemestry prescribed or not, attempting to numb the stinging acid <br> of the hateful words aimed always at me. <br> Poetry is written by people with great thoughts, <br> but my thoughts remain hidden, and buried. <br> Buried in pain, and rejection. and in the hooded eyes of the strangers, <br> that whisper as they pass me on the street, and yes even anguish, did you <br> know I was capable of that? <br> This is not poetry... I wonder what is.<br> These are just the ramblings of a madman<br> If I could peel away the calouses that surround my aching heart and expose the<br> hot volcanic passion that hides lying within, would it suddenly become poetry? <br> or would it still be the ramblings of a madman, danceing on the edge of sanity<br> and liking so much the dance? <br> I thrill to this madness, the insane dances are my best moves. Money I have <br> none, and meals even less I have my madness and the voices of the damned that <br> struggle to stay alive beneath my pasty skin. This is not poetry, this is madness, <br> I dont get poetry.<br> You laugh at me, and I laugh at you laughing at me, <br> laughing at the aching madness that paints the lines on my angry wretched face<br> I don't think this is poetry. Do you? <br> This is just a taste of my madness. I wonder what would poetry demand of me? <br> If I opened up a vein and let my blood flow down my chest and fill the cracks<br> in the sidewalk that spell out my name would that be more poetic? <br> If I shook and cried and begged while tears rolI down my face I wonder if that<br> would that reach you? Would that be poetry? <br> If I tore off a piece of my tortured soul and threw it at your restless feet, <br> would that be poetry? I wonder, if I could die of anguish right here before you, <br> would you call that poetic? But no, these things <br> would still be the angry ramblings of a madman thrilled with the anguish of my <br> chosen life and living alone with the pain with which it rewards me <br>  And liking it more than you could ever know............Hey can you spare a quarter?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen+Bitner">Wilfred Owen Bitner</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=579511" data-title="This is Not Poetry de Wilfred Owen Bitner" data-description="This isn't poetry
 
 
 These are just the ramblings of a madman.
 
 poetry is written by educated men, about deep thoughts, splashed with 
 color and sprinkeld with verses that I can't even understand.
 but this is not poetry, 
 These are just the..."></div>
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