Than a real one,
However
Sentiments are hurt,
Unnecessarily,
Lettered bombs
Projectiles,
Hurled,
Insulting banners waved
And slurred,
And at the end,
Nothing gained!
Nothing saved!
The same old World,
Just a bit more blurred.
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Concentrated
In just a fewWords,Poetry,The SoulBeing heard.
Oh, the mountains
Have not forgottenThe tears of melancholyFrom the PastSo deeply cried,When we wereYoung and lonely,And life seemedSo empty and deprived.We’re sentimentalCreatures,For the most partThat do not takeOur lives in easyStride,Seems there isSomethingAlways missing,Perhaps, that loveThat’s gone away,Forever,From which we canNo longer hide.
Poetry
The one and only QueenOf emotional expansionLove,As written passion,In immortal fashion.
Some poets live
Where Poetry,Is!Exists,Only to be lovedAnd shared,As a heart-throbbingMiracleOf It!Happy is the poetThat, becauseOf this fulfillingInextinguishable,Pure love,Is never reallyAlone,And only livesTo adore,The beauty of..Poetry’s living soul.
When true love appears,
Most unforgettableMoments in life,Heavens open wide,And death disappears,You feel immortalAmong the spheres,That haunt the skies,And you don’t even,Have to ever ask,Why?
The day, presents itself gray,
A strong feeling of wear and tear,Of Light, without shine,Figurines of white porcelain dream,Those, that no human hand can design,Frigid, no warmth, no care,But are everywhere.Today, there is a sadness in the air,A lagging feeling of, ‘I don’t care’And a gray silence, invades the air,No human feeling, Anywhere.Yes, you guessed it!Depression, sitting on a chair,Dreams…