— It's mine, isn't it? What you write.
— All my words and every heartbeat, they're all for you.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Give a man a few lines of verse and he thinks he's the Lord of all Creation.
Gil-Galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.
All girls should have a poem
written for them even if
we have to turn this God-damn world
upside down to do it.
Just let our spirits live on, through our lyrics
That you hear in our songs.
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.
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