Any poets for exchange of poetry

Are there any poets that would care to exchange poetry about their life or illness?

-Mish

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I would love to hear one of yours but I don’t have one to share, sorry

THE INFINITY MIRROR

Reminiscent of a dream:
The mirror, the ghostly figure,
The long, loving grass.)

The infinity mirror, for all its fury
To Smooth over the untamed roughess
Of Humanity's core,
Draws blood in shaving blades,
And magnanimity in masquerades.

And still the pallor of blush,
And the discoloration of adoration,
Are but servile to the nation.
One's creation is another's libation,
Of a deep despairing sobriety

The reflector of infinity
The eery promise
Reaching towards divinity
Or a torturous, blind hell-bent path

The blind mirror promises
Infinity, duality
The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

The fragmented stone beneath him
Like a altar on a monestary
Grounding him to the magestic illusion
Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
That bends about paths through human hearts
To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
Charades of macabre cavemen.

Once, always visible in the mirror, invisible is the heart.
In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine,
In deed through imprints the duality of despair's duplicity
Onto a parched heart's never-fingerprint

Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
Vanity is unknown to the self
How transparent the mirror makes
Blood-meat of a man!

Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
Onto the lines on the page.
He retraces the chalk on the lines.
He becomes just the vane words on the page.

Words, and the mirror of language
The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
The mosaic is born,
Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented nation.

But language outcasts him,
Him tangled deeply within its moat,
Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
Ah, again the duality!


His mirror-image, the words
Against the page, untold sillhoutes
Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
Of brash omens.

The words, his craft of silence's
Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
Of an empty room without
Any charge at all.

The words, against the words.
But that he sees not. 
The words against the self.
He sees not.

Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
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Hemoglobin For The Anger Goblin

I swallow a storm like a
clogged drain.

This drain swirls then
hurls back sky’s blood.

The blood cycles from
drain to drain.

Where blood never clots but
cycles with reddened rage.

With a steadfast iron will,
will iron-blood ever rust?

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What’s the meaning of this interesting poem?

Oh the blue covered lawn
let it shower the grey covered clown

Oh the surface of the mother feet
let it give rest to the unsweet

Oh the transparent matter inbetween
let it spray the dirt clean