No poet
Is filled with poise
Nor every hour awake he aches;
For lost love
Or far off islands
Half submerged in the sea,
Neither he weighs in world his price
In self- sought melancholy.
He is a restless hand
With a wineglass filled with ink
Drunk in the thoughts he have
Of the thoughts he cannot think.
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Author: TheHumanAnvil
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.
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THE HUMAN ANVIL 
stirring composition. Re-posted here: https://grumpysgiftspoetry.org/2020/08/11/rimer-the-human-anvil/
thanks for sharing your words.
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Thank you very much for it my friend 😀
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Eloquently versed
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Thank you, 😊
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You’re welcome
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Subhan Allah. Loved how you said it
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Thank you very much 😀….
I am glad you appreciate
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