So pure, it even hurts inside,
Like love that in the morn is born,
And saves us from Life’s bitter thorn.
Similar Posts
I suppose,
That Poetry is an absolute waste of time,Not worth a coffee dime,But how wrong they are,Poetry is a soul cleanser,A purification blender,An art defender,A maker of Stars,That tells you who and what you are,Not a human pretender,But a deep Dreamer,That keeps dreams close,At hand, never very far.
Does a Rose have any feeling?
Does the Sea remember being,Immense Beauty, Tempest, Fright?Does the Wind remember learning,How to blow a stormy night?Does a bird plan it’s long journey,Just before it takes to flight?And do You, do You Remember,When we met with such delight?And from just a tiny ember,Love, burned everthing in sight.
You talk to yourself
And out of solitude and frightA poem may be bornWith love in sight,It’s like giving birthAloneOne, cold and lonelyNight,To the child in you,That never was ableTo take flightBut in a desperate poem,Found its true Life.
Vampires,
Feudal lords, is anything different for your serfs?Manipulated and strangulated,The people pay the price,Of the misuse of power,From the lowest hut,To the highest, tower.Will it ever change?
We want to believe were good,
Our History bears witness,To That!Some of us have good moments,That’s all,The rest of the time,We’re torments,Trouble,Destructive children,That fall.
Sometimes, I feel I’m floating,
That will push me into the Ocean,It I cry real strong and loud.Sometimes, I feel like dreaming,When there’s nobody around,That the World’s an empty Castle,And that Joy, can still be found.Sometimes, I feel like hiding,In the Black Hands of a Clock,And destroying Time forever,Would that really be a shock?Sometimes, I feel like walking,Directly into the…