There is but feeling and sincerity,
That must flow, so naturally,
So that the work of art or poem,
Can truly Be.
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It’s all about
The rest is justAltogether,Frills and flimsyLace,Poetry can’t helpBeing,The innermostWitness,Of the feelingsOf the human race.
Poets,
Writing dreams,Injustice fighters,Love,Taken to extremesSometimes even,Taking a pauseTo wipe a lonely tearOff, a solitary rose.
We live and learn
It seems, the same mistakesThe same bewilderment,The same bad things and crimesStill hellishly, crownedAnd still around.Since we lost Paradise,That old snake-vendorWith the sinful, temptingApplesIs still safe and sound,And always gaining ground.
I loved you then,
Each moment with you,I still adore,The memory of,A love so true,That made the sky,Seem more than blue,I loved you then,I love you now,I’ll always love you,You’re mine, somehow,And when at night,I’ll welcome rest,You’ll fill my dreams,With all that’s best.
A cold chill of loneliness
Artificial CommunicationsAre here to stay!As we moveFarther and farther, Away!From each other…
Yes, the Rose knows,
That on a single stem,Perfume and thorns grow.