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Poets,
Too busyRunning,Thru fieldsOf WordsTo harvest,To reapIntellectualWheat,Poetry,The StaffOf Life.
The true artist
More than by rules and constriction,Feelings, Love and InspirationAre the inevitable prescriptionFor a work of art to be outsideConventional, jurisdiction.
Life’s silent Paradise
To make it comeTrue,Just me and you.
You sculpt ideas
Sometimes from thingsSo rarely heard,But poems born,All falsehood scorn,Because they’re fromYou’re spirit, torn.
And what is True Love?
‘True Love are We’,Replied, the Thorn,‘Red Blood mingled with Perfume’.
What is a Poet?
The Soul of all language,A Birth newly found,A Sea of expression,Unleashed, without bound.Within Human madness,A Poet is Love,That mourns now and always,The death of a Dove.