That most,
Cannot write
About things
They don’t believe in
Or even feel
In a very strong way.
Poetry is the sincerest
Form of expression,
Maybe, the very first,
That tried to portray
Love,
In a written way,
As glorious light
Found,
And dearest possession.
Something in them dies,But express yourself positivelyNot by harming othersOr taking them to placesWhere muddy hate resides.
Wish we could bottle, the stuffAnd make the World much better.
You’re all I have,It’s me and youAgainst all odds,Against the World,Will we survive?A bitter-sweet breezeAccompanies,This chant.
An artistic vision,Appears,SpontaneousAnd so dearWithout evenKnowing,What conditionsSynapse,What impulsesConnect,Push, extractThe essential essence,That createsThe work of art.
For precious light, sereneSo rarely felt or seen,I delve into sweet Poetry,The Arts that have no scheme,I look for Nature’s beauty,The peace that’s born within,And try to hide,From human tide,Where only tempests win.
Observers of life and timeEverything, is your stage,Nothing escapes your poetic range,And poetry is your lifeLike a breath of fresh air,That in order to liveThru Love, you must share.
