I’ve run out of themes,
Disappointingly,
They come no more,
Not even a slight knocking,
At my cottage door.
I’m dormant now,
Have to figure out, somehow
Why I ever wrote, the things I did,
But it really doesn’t matter,
For I know that when I did,
My inner feelings never lied,
And sincerity is always better
Than a lot of useless clatter,
It’s good to have that music,
Without forcing, by your side.
Those are the rare ones,Very few regrets.We communicate thru language,But there’s so much more than that,There is all the human baggage,We all have under our hat.
Like the frames of a bad film,Out of the control of the director,Subject to all kinds of whim.Us, We,What do we do in the time we have?Fly butterflies over flowersThat we think won’t die?Collect dreams that stream,Like melancholic clouds in the sky?Oh Love,Where do we hideFrom Life’s uncertain tide?Oh Love,How will you taunt?The simple lives…
On white pages,On traveling clouds,Pure and sweet,That Time defeat,Still have ideals,What is written from the heart,Heals!
Live by night,Like Dracula and bats,Am I saying somethingThat will shake upThe annals of PoetryOr a scientific fact?Those with answersPlease send statsTo the Count’s, habitatThank you,For your kind attentionAnd that’s that.
Cracks in the mindsIn the hearts tooOf those who don’t care,That only want power,But dare,Want to govern us,‘Open Borders’The so called Democracks,Sing,What for, I pray?To have more criminals in,To join ‘the party’Of so many already inOur own rotten cropAs if we didn’t have enough!Stop the madnessDanger and Deception,We will not be fooled!It’s anarchy and votes…
That Poetry is an absolute waste of time,Not worth a coffee dime,But how wrong they are,Poetry is a soul cleanser,A purification blender,An art defender,A maker of Stars,That tells you who and what you are,Not a human pretender,But a deep Dreamer,That keeps dreams close,At hand, never very far.
