Very few poets are happy,
That’s why on poems they feast.
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True Art and Poetry
Human jealousy,The petty partsOf our dysfunctionalEgotism,Such is the grandeurAnd UniversalityOf their Composition,For more than all elseWith purest Love,They touch,And conquer the profundityOf our hearts,Making, both human and divineThis glorious transition,Into loving Poetry and Art.
Words of Love,
Emotions, uncontrolled,Lets ask not why,Our lives begin,When Love of us, takes hold.
I’ve lost all
Fatigue and hesitationHave set in.Writing,Is a gamePlayedDeep within,And feelingsGone,No earthly prongCan make you fakeA pleasant win.
We are at a Crossroad,
The train has left the station,And is sorely off the track,Our priorities cannot wait,Tomorrow will be too late,Values must be put back in place,WIN we must, this very last race.This Nation,Founded, to drown the misery,That Europeans knew so well,Must not succumb, to their wreched past,Embrace falsehoods and false prophets,That will not last,Our pride in Truth…
There’s no explanation
With whom or whereBut if Love appears,Fulfillment’s there,Never too much,Of Heaven’s touch.
Where are the men of valor?
That with their ‘savoir faire’Helped build this Country’s dome,A place that all Americans,So proudly called their home.Where are the men of honest heart?Whose love for country shone,And worked to achieve the betterment,For All, not just their own.Where are the men who would not take,Dictatorship of one?Who would not speak with lying words,Nor sly and twisted…