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Wisdomís Seed

Drawn to pen my hand is braced,
while through my head my thoughts are traced.
Itís in my blood, and now I know,
in written words these thoughts must flow.

Itís not by choice, I always find,
that words must tumble from my mind.
Then place themselves, with pen and ink,
on paper, as these words I think.

I know this poetryís from my muse,
Iím just the one, it chose to choose.
I rarely know what it will say,
until it writes words down this way.

Though Iíve no time to play this game,
I have to write, my urge to tame.
It knows it has me in its trap
an addict now, I canít turn back.

If this is just a Ďmind diseaseí,
a Ďfixí I need to give me ease,
then why I ask, did it choose me,
is there a cure will set me free?

But sometimes when I rest my pen
I know that what Iíve written then,
are words that echo in my head,
that really needed to be said.

And so I simply write things down,
Iím just the medium thought has found.
And at these times I share my muse
for me, and all the world to use.

Itís then I know a poets lot
is just to throw things in the pot
for all to see in what they read
either trash, or wisdoms seed.

Ivor G Davies

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