Or at least think, I have.
I cannot take anything for granted,
In this world there is
So much deceit and bluff.
More Time passes,
More I realize,
That you are your own world,
Looking in from the outside.
As a great Spanish philosopher once said:
‘I am I, and my circumstances’
We are All so Alone,
In this tearful valley called Life.
Fatigue and hesitationHave set in.Writing,Is a gamePlayedDeep within,And feelingsGone,No earthly prongCan make you fakeA pleasant win.
We like it,Or not,Certain Souls,They come together,And their Love is not,Whatever,It becomes a solid knot,It becomes your Life’s,Endeavor,That cannot be torn apart,That can Never be forgotten,And was there right from the start.
Rome was lost, corruption most,And now it is our Time.
(I never do, anyway, shhh)Have a fling with the Moon,And talk to the Night,I want to be free,And grow Wings that travel,To full Liberty.I’m so very tired,Of the madness around,I want to take off,And never touch ground.
Poets live in other Worlds,Made of sadness and of words,Poet’s life, Intensity,Poets want, what cannot be.
Never on their beautiful facesAny, angered, dreadful frownsThey are the only creaturesThat will never let you down,Trustworthy and faithful,Veritable living treasures,The best friends to have around.
