If there is any part,
Of man, that is really good,
You can attribute it to Art,
That deep felt creation,
Less conceived in the mind,
Born more from the heart,
Inspiration, divinely blind,
But humanly signed.
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It is the little joys that count,
A summer seashore splendid breeze,Then holding hands as sweethearts do,Love is so grand when felt by two,When Love is there, the whole world sings,Worth more than all material thingsIn life it is what mostly countsThe joy supreme, the happiness.That does all life totally bless.
I always wanted to have Wings!
But to be moved or inspired enough,To be uplifted from Earth’s tired stuff,Today I found My Wings,Delirium and all those things,My Wings were born from your Poetry,Oh how, oh how, It speaks to me! ! !
Some of us,
To find answers,While we churn alternatives,But we never really learn,All is so shrouded by mystery,Or hidden, or turned,So that the point from where we got started,Is the point to where, we will undoubtedly return.
Before I was alone
But for whateverIt’s worth,I was with myself.Now,I don’t have even that,Uprooted from the house I hadI wander in solitudeThru the new and small roomsThat I now have,And I’m sad,No memories here,They all stayed,In the house I had,And I miss the empty warmth,Of the house, I had,To which, I can never go back,For no one is…
Are we dreaming
Said the poetTo his dream,Or did weCreateOne anotherAnd we’reBoth,Just but a dream.
Invisible, spiritual veins
Like the bloodThat keepsBody and Mind alive,Poetry,You run thru me.