Though I am an avid supporter of the poetic arts,
I could never be a critic. Just the thought of rating
another poet's material makes me feel weak
as if my words are empty and hollow. Nothing
about them feel substantial.
Even seeing the comments of other writers
who criticize another's work, yank at the very fiber of my being.
Just the thought that one can tear at someone's piece so
callously, so heartlessly leaves me disgusted! For Who are we to rate passion?
I speak to all those who've raked through my words, and titled them passionless.
You want passion? Check the graves where those
so-called hopeless poems reside and excavate them, feel their hunger,
their pain, and their loss as I have.
Do not blind fold your minds with the traditional standards of writing.
Look not for the structure of the draft but the creativity and power in its words and
you'll see the passion!
You'll see that our passion is an inheritance that flows from our ancestors who
anointed their burdens upon us,and in result our past and present are products of their hopes and dreams and the foundation of our future is built in the blood of generations before us.
I know their pain;I feel the same; I know their sorrow;It's mine also.
It's their passion that burns bright in my belly like the sun from which I photosynthesize my strength.
That passion is the ink that bleeds onto this paper,
Is the water in my fountain, and the fuel to my fire that will never die.
I may be wordy, because I have a lot to say. I may be confident because I believe in what I say.
But I am NOT passionless.
