Nor does it flower,
Just at a bid.
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Life is a Tragedy
And yet, we hold onEver, so sadly.
It’s easy to feel,
When poets dream,The world becomes betterAnd Love goes further,
A feeling deep,
Instead of chocking,Words run deep,A flight of birds,From head to heart,A trembling motion,Gives the start.A poem born just like a child,Whose love is now a faithful guide,Direct emotion, cannot hide,The happiness, now by your side.A poem born, that’s part of you,Like from the tree, the fruit is too.
Inspiration,
Does not heedJust to desire,Alone.What moves it,What transpires?Is the great,Unknown.It can’ be forcedJust by desire,Nor artificiallyPerformed,But when it happensAngeles’ choir,Makes you feelYou have come home.
Strange,
Has reached realms,Of the unimaginable,And yet, and yet,So often,Human behavior deviates,To that of animals and savages,Making us wonder,What are we, really?And what makes us go up,And so often go under.
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!