In a passionless fashion,
Of which I can’t boast,
Surrounded by images,
Nothing for real,
A virtual life,
Has no great appeal.
Life lacking emotion,
The warmth, human feel,
Is a great empty ocean,
Doesn’t even seem real.
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Will we someday,
All our mistakes,How much harmWe have doneTo one another,As miserable,And dangerousFakes?How we have,Disabled,Hope,Turning againstEach other,Murdering faithIn one another,Not for one dayBut, maybe since,Forever!Will we, will we,Ever!Become Human?And maybe workTogether,To eliminateDestruction and Hate?If so,That will beOur most lovableAnd finest hour,Our greatest achievement,Equal to None.
The days have past,
When happiness was King,And in my heart,There was a start,Of birds wanting to sing,Life flew away,Like a short day,And Love went with it too,And here I am,I contemplate,So far away from You.
I like describing things,
Make believe the World is clear,Like a windy summer day,With you very close and near,Fantasy, in every way!Make Believe is just for me,Don’t like harsh reality,So I word and feel my way,Seeking inner dreams to say,Feeling deeply all that movesStaying free in what I chose,Wasting time in imagery,Mostly writing poetry.
Pushed by the Winds of Inspiration,
A poet strives for perfection,Trying to artistically unfold.
Looking for a lonely hand,
Navigating in the fog,Of loveless planets, cold,Searching in the cratered Moon,For poems young and old,Searching for a kindred Soul,A story yet untold.
Write Poet write,
To express yourselfWhether, you are read or not.How lucky, the Poet’s part playedIn this woobly stage called Life,To be able to write with such delightAnd express what’s in his soulWould it not be worth for that aloneTo have been born?