Poetry Uncategorized


I speak a lot to myself.

I sing aloud because the verses come to my tongue easily.

When my keyboard is far, I strike my fingers in delight. I hop a little.

I like my bread soft and brown; I write verses on any white paper.

While the Judge dictates and quotes.

I travel on a short sojourn riddled with
The paintings of artists, songs of bards.

I could be anywhere, Sweden, France

but I am here sticky streets and flaming paths.

I talk about the melancholia of life to anyone close to listen.

Of the indifference of cowards and the fear of the brave.

If I write to myself, I speak to an infinite audience.

But how can I write if I won’t weep?

When I walk, I listen to the tremble of the elements.

The stirrings of prophecies to come.

I have a soft tongue and fiery intentions.

To be the poet whose muse is not only pain.

So in the tunnel of silence, I break, create and create.

Today I paused to count the notebooks I have kept for years.

A proof that I live.

Fear is boring and other stories I whisper at night.

No one explains how great you are.

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Jephthah Temona December 11, 2019 at 6:49 am

The way you string up these words mehnnnnn. Mad oh🌝🌚

Debby Keys December 11, 2019 at 10:13 am

Mad o 😂
Thanks Jeff ♥

Gottfried December 11, 2019 at 10:14 am

Fear is boring 👌

Debby Keys December 13, 2019 at 9:35 am

May we always remember 😢

Etta December 13, 2019 at 10:36 am


Mims August 12, 2020 at 7:06 pm

This poem, Debby.

Debby Keys August 12, 2020 at 10:25 pm

❤️ ❤️

I feel so nostalgic

Mims November 17, 2020 at 8:21 am

I’ve read this poem at least five times. And I’m not done

Debby Keys March 12, 2021 at 11:46 am

❤️ ❤️


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