In writing,
A poem
Cannot be acquired
Or merely desired,
It surpasses
All types
Of Emotions,
It’s like
Being born again,
From and with
Love,
Full of devotion.
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What do we want?
Something owned, something lent?Just some Magic that’s for rent?Always searching, searching, searching,While Life passes as hearsay,By the time you turn around,Everything has gone away!
There is an internal rhythm,
Pleasing to the ear,But spiritually, more fit.There is an invisible rhythm,Born to PoetryThat heightens language’s prism,And keeps it in memory.There is an internal sweetness,Sole to Poetry,That tenderly speaks to lovers,So they know what Love can be.
To see, to live
Sensations, graspedFrom Life’s strange,Mysterious journey,Trying to uncomplicate,Dissect, impressionsBurning, to be told,That’s what the poetTries to do,And then thru PoetryIt’s gifted on to you.
I saw you there,
I could love,No one else, but you,Your Soul appeared,In one big Smile,That sent me drifting,Down the Nile,Into a Sea of happiness,That only I could see and bless.All this was but a Fantasy,A dream of false Imagery,I know so well, you don’t love me,And yet as sad as this may be,I love you so, and always…
If we all were sincere poets,
What a World of peace and comfort,We could then, together be.
I press my love into verses,
Unforgettable rose,You forever want to keep,I look not to the pastNor live, the presentFor without you,All I do is weep.