I try.
I will never be prepared
For that final,
Goodbye.
Love is a special
Tyrant,
And I can’t even
Explain, Why.
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Is Poetry
Some might say‘Yes’, not worth a dimeBut breathing, thinking’Loving too,May not produce,Great wealth for youYet necessary are,And so is PoetryFor those who dreamAnd live,Reaching, for the Stars.
Poetry,
Can also give a tear,But best of all,It makes you feel,That human warmth is real.
The Liberty of color,
A White Rose,A symphony of beauty,Does compose,Bringing purity,To our Souls.
Poets can also give the news
What really happens in the heart,Is what they usually say.
‘I know your tastes,
Your time around me,Your every sight,I know your wants,You’re dreams,You’re cares,And all the feelings,You want to share,I silently follow,Your every trail,But you’re not free,For I’m your jail.’Amazing!Who’d ever think,That a machine,Could know so much,About a human being.
Habitual pleasure,
In new words,They’re evocative, provocative,And sometimes even flyLike new found birds.
I try.
I will never be prepared
For that final,
Goodbye.
Love is a special
Tyrant,
And I can’t explain
Why,
But every time
I think of your departure,
I break down and cry.
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The heart of a poem lies,
It can cross so many skies,Revive so many temptations,But it’s Love that amplifies,The poem’s deeper intention,Poetry magnifies feelings,Beyond all human expectations.
Poetry knows not your name,
For the poetic equalizer,It’s the Poem that counts,Not the poet’s name.
It’s a sad and unfair life
Those who deserve to be punishedSurvive,And those who have nothing done,The Innocent and dearly Beloved,Are so many times,So sadly and prematurely, gone
How elusive
Sweet poetic art,You are!When I call youAnd I want you,You’re coquettish,Distant, Far..Yet, whenLeast expected,There you are!Not a trustworthyScenario,But for meYou’re still a Star!
Love,
At any momentAt any time,You don’t evenNeed a rope,Just useHate and bloodFilled words,And in momentsThe victimWill succumbAnd painfullyDieFrom a brokenHeart.
When certain poems speak to us,
That though not there,Act as, a calming blend.We identify and are not shy,Our likeness to confess,And in our lonely, broken hearts,Do many poems bless.