It’s glorious sting,
It’s potent magic,
It’s loss, so tragic,
It always being,
The living soul,
Of Everything.
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To be a poet,
To go around sayingWhat you feel and found,What is painful, What’s profound,To be making sounds,In perpetual true-confession.
Art helps us
Sensations given,Open doors,Imagination triggers,FlightTo unknown WorldsOf pure delight.
If we all were sincere poets,
What a World of peace and comfort,We could then, together be.
We think they’re magicians
They are idealistic visions,Takes and Cuts.But those who can really actAnd emotions transmit,They remain in our hearts,Because something thereThey have memorably, lit.There is nothing I like better,Than a fine actorWith a Cap for his Feather.And a Film as his Captor,And maybe one day,If they’re good enough,A gold statuette, named Oscar!
We are bombarded
Computerized,TelevisedMaterializedMarketed!And yet,If in thisCyber-InfernoWe findSomeone we likeAnd bond withIdealize,A littleWe will neverSee them,Face to faceOr even be awareThat, They and YouStill are a Persona,That belongsBelieve it or not,To something,Once upon a timeCalled,The human race.
Greatness can be found
Of a poem’s sound,And they may enter your heart,Nesting there forever,By your glory, crowned.