In the Dust Bin,
We humans fabricate it too,
By behaving like Morons,
And knowingly
Indulging,
In so many
Wrong things we do.
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In a Fool’s Paradise,
They write aboutChanging,Almost everythingWhen they very wellKnowThat all will stayThe same,Anyway.Poor Poet DreamersWhat a way,To waste their day…
We look for love,
Maybe a muffled cry,Maybe in some forgotten land,Where Roses go to die,Where home is not you’re home,You’re soul is not your own,You’re staring at the livid sand,Knowing you’re all alone.One love I had,That made me glad,But had a heart of stone,You cannot love an aching dream,Someone you’ve never known.
The True Human
Has no colorRace or nationality,It just feelsLove and Compassion,And Is,The best in us,All.
Life makes us
A chapter writtenEveryday,But it’s up to usTo do our best,To plant with zest,The wondersThe spiritual infusions,The good kind feelingsThat should give riseTo BeautyArt, Love and CompassionAbove,Everything else.
Oh, poor poets!
Their verses reaching summitsThat never in reality, will log.But it really doesn’t matterBecause for a few ecstatic minutesThey will have left this planet,And lived,Beyond all imaginable, Limits!
Of Love and Hate
However,Feelings thatDo not rhymeAt all,Together,As we remain,As strangeAnd deranged,As Ever!