With words,
Holy be he who will,
So chose your words carefully,
Responsibly, lovingly
There is time, still.
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A poet’s dream can reach up high,
Thus go to regions, yet not met,Where feelings become transparent,So therefore we must not forget,Another name for Poetry,Could very well perhaps, just be,Imagination that is free.
Poetry,
To whom, you just can’t sayGo away, get lostCome back another day,It just doesn’t work that way,Imperatively, they must be writtenFor the poet’s survivalAnd the poem’s, birth day
Imagination,
Donation of the gods,Traveling to other WorldsHas never been so fulfilling!Where fiction and pluralityOf Wisdom and Dreams,Can be seen and had.
Fall upon me,
Embrace me,Surround meLike refreshingSummer rain,Uplift my spiritWhen all seems uselessAnd in vainWhen Life hurts,From the bruisesOf some hidden pain,When all that’s leftAre memories of dreams,Once dreamt,Never obtained.
In the wilderness of our dreams,
A perfect world,It’s fatiguing, causes bleeding,Knowing how we’ve lost the boat,And yet,Some rare Poets still hold hope.
Like children,
And Want!And once we Have,We destroyThat,That gave usWhat we wantedAnd thoughtWe could not have.Eternal paradoxesAre we,More and moreIrrational,And therefore,Much less free.