As the planets, envious, gaze
And the Universe is shaken.
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No one is really
EverythingSooner or laterIs put intoPersonal gear,We are self-centered,Selfish, egotistsThat is clear,Even if ‘socialism’And brotherhood,Are occasionallyCheered!
I can’t be free,
They are beside me all day long,Writing becomes my only song,Pulling, moving my right hand,That has to write more than it can.I am a Prisoner of Poetry,The air I breath,It is to me,Since I was very, very young,From its transcendent precious tree,My humble fruit, has sweetly hung.
I find such delight
Like a loving hug,Or chocolate candy,I just hope that sometimes,I get it rightAnd can make others feel,Fine and dandy.
I’ve lost enough shirts
Now I feel cold,My nest egg has dwindled,That’s for not keeping,More eggs in my basket,Instead making omelets,Bad and bold.A la swindle.
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…
Poetry is Truth,
For it is bornFrom spontaneous and deepest feelings,And those you can’t transform,Invent or hide.