I can’t help but think,
That as most everything,
It’s a Fake!
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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!
Doesn’t matter where you’re from,
Human feelings,For me, you sitOn the highest throne.
So many things that do not click,
Yet we are made, the same to swallow,Sometimes I feel just like a pig,Forced in the mud to sadly wallow.
Up and up the hill we went,
Now we are on straight free fall,Losing Country, reaching small,Lying, cheating, muddy crawlIs there no shame left at all?
All the unconditional love,
I cannot forget,It lives in me,Irreplaceably, set.
The Beauty of Words,
Only lies and foul language,Seem to excite, satisfy and delightThe numerous, unglamorous fools of the world.Beauty of thought,Seems all but lost,Romanticism, Idealism,Two ‘Enemies’ that are,Easily forgotten and fought,As everything that’s rotten,Takes hold,What’s left of our humanity,Remains tangled, and distraught.