It would be like
Betraying myself
And so very, very
Unreal.
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A poet,
Big broken heart,There is nothing,Sadder than that.All it wanted was loveBut it was denied,Even that,So they were to find him,Gone,Drowned,In his own tearsMentally strangled,By the loveHe never found,By the love,He never had.
There are so many things
That we can’t explain,Above AllThe loss of a loved one,The Pain,That Forever with you,Will remain.
The political scene,
Gone are mostKings and Queens,Monarchy, symbolic powerThat got substituted,By elected LiarsAnd Tyrannical Cowards,That produce nothingAnd only want perpetualPower,As they bleed peoplesAnd countries fromTheir protected towers.
The Midas touch
The golden imageThat is free,The poet says:‘Oh come to me,More than all elseYou’re worth to me,For Love to him is poetryIt’s in his bloodInner world be,This golden-worded tapestry.
Sometimes I think,
Is such a waste of time,Who really cares just how you feel?Or if you’re prose or rhyme,But poets are a Dreamer’s race,The pen flows on its own,And even if they have no case,They want to set a tone.Poetry sometimes is like lace,An ornament to have,But when it’s written from the heart,You’ve got the winning card.As…
Doesn’t know what he’s doing,
Just sit here silently viewing,Our own future destruction.