Even sometimes roar,
But what a poem must Always be,
Is truthful to Itself,
Poetry cannot harbor Hypocrisy.
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I fell in love with words of pain,
Intimate tears, that were in vain,And then just Silence, one day came!You walked away, mysteriously,Never a word was left for me,And so in emptiness I roam,Knowing my heart, has lost its home.
Art is love,
And when I read youYou stole my heart.
Magic grapes that turn to wine
Love the red, like bloodThe wine,Not the favorite of thinkers.Yet, no matter where you beClimate and changes permittingWine, red blood, of Ancient drinkersForms part of our History.
If I could,
In the most exquisite GardenWhere lies dead and buried,All of hate.
Who can tell what is to come?
No one has a Crystal BallTech cannot answer it all,Most is so out of our hands,Even, if so foolishly,We believe we’re in command.All the talk is one big scam,On the stage, one great big Ham,No one really knows a thing,Make believe, the sinuous fraud,Is the goal, the perfect sting.
Poets,
And forgetThe World is madeOf pain, regrets,Of meanness, falsehoods,And of pride,Of ‘taking others for a ride’.