What can you do with money?
Buy things, put up the heat?
I like the liberation,
That money can achieve,
But I’d rather write a poem,
As a memory to leave.
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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.
What pleasure
Visits can produce,You always introduceLake-like lingeringTreasure, that opensHearts and soulsIn lonely, silent booths,As poets writeAnd do their best,Hoping to conserveBeauty, Life and Truth.
How do you explain?
Fathom the depths,Of feelings that come,Spontaneously.How do you explain Love?That no one can time,Springing, sometimes in a second,That you cannot see coming,Spontaneously.How do you search in your soul?For all the mysteries,That make you the person,You are or should be,Fulfillingly.
Approaching Autumn,
Colors will stream,And the Wind,Knows it.
Lies,
Than flies,InfectThe political sewers!Accumulate manureTo fertilizeTheir tiesWith the DevilAnd all that,Abomination, liesIn dark watersAs nations are strangledMade to disappear,As all hope dies,People strangledBy those whoWith Hell havePreferential, ties.11
Bring out the Lions,
The faceless Elephants,That never speak,The smiley, idiot painted Clowns,That make their cars go round and round,I hear the Crack! of Master’s whip,He thinks he’s really very hip,And we go down, and down we Go,Into the Hell, we yet not know!