Comes
The Poetry,
The Pain
Of self-expression,
That so often
Opens doors
To regretful,
Slow, processions.
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Art is love,
And when I read youYou stole my heart.
We humans harbor secrets,
That darkly loomInside lagoons,That sometimes are like hell.We humans cannot face things,Those things we cannot tellThat silently, remain unfreeInside each one’s, inkwell.
How do you paint a feeling?
Drive it,Perfect itHide it,Keep on feelingIt forever,Ride it into infinity,Name it,Blame itKeep it secret,Passionately deprived,This never ending feelingThat helps you stay alive.I have a mild suspicion,That once upon a time,In some wild omission,And without anyone’s permissionSomeone called it Love.
Curiously,
Travel, silentlyAnd we inspire one another,Poets feeling, other Poets’Poetry,But the warmth that comesFrom that invisible,Collaboration,Is as natural asCan be,Close to loveFor one another,Seriously.
Poetry,
But not for everyone,I cannot really tell youWhat it takes to be a fan,But a certain luminosityAnd a dose of great sincerityWants to be passed on,Friendliness and BlessingsThat a poem leaves behind,Are like divine, heavenly colorsThat, so well, the spirit understands,In conjunction with the mind,And that speak to you and sooth you,As no other form…
How often,
Do we think, ‘things will change’,That some how, Hope can be arranged,And then something happens,Not for the better,Just an eye-opener,That makes you realize,That Change is just a word,That has to do with the weather,Not with human exchange,Something, that no matter,How hard we try,Simply cannot be arranged.