Poets live in other Worlds,
Made of sadness and of words,
Poet’s life, Intensity,
Poets want, what cannot be.
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In this crazy, treacherous World,
And its strength cannot be shattered,Nor its Beauty ever blurred.
As the day begins to ember,
Slowly, slowly, I remember,That I Love You, ‘when and why’,Not too long ago it happened,On a day I can’t recall,But that day the Heavens opened,And I heard of Love, the call,Ever since then I’ve adored you,Loving-Sweetness of my heart,You have given me the whole world,That’s what sets you, so apart.
Good and Sincere,
Chases away depression,And may even be,A bit of a cure,When you purge your soul,Trying to make it pureBy giving to allThe very best in you.
I hate Time!
But Time is alwaysThere!The great ThiefOf all LifeOf all that’sBeautiful and fair.
The brain is a muscle,
It atrophies,If you do use it,You can become unusual.Worth thinking about,Open closed doors,Let in the light,It’s in your power,To become really bright.
It’s not better to have loved and lost,
When you have loved, the person gone,It’s an unfinished song that’s sung,And only half of you is there,Alone, no one to love or care.