All the rest,
Is useless fire.
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A certain
Poetry,The most creativeLanguageOf them all,BeautifulImaginativeAnd tallReaching for the StarsPicking us upWhen we fall.
Already shear perfection,
Of Beauty the projection,That all can see and hold,But in all it’s perfection,Still more does give the Rose,The perfume of seduction,That no man can compose.
There is no perfect time for writing verse,
Like love, it can’t be forced,Like love, it can’t be stopped.
Poetry, food for thought,
Moves the Soul,Best of all,Sometimes,Makes us think.
There is nothing worse,
Buffoon,Thinking,He’s the Master,Of a long lost,Lagoon.Pity,His ignoranceAnd stay, clearThose wannabe,Blown upsAre featherlessPeacocks,Meant to disappear.
You have to feel it,
Never hide, emotionGrasp it,Dramatically,With its pride,So tenderly, generousSpontaneous,Never venomous,Embrace it withHeart, never rationAll its passion,Poetry,You have to Love itIn order to Live it,Then surrender to itsEverlasting attraction.