Of our thoughts,
Poetry offers,
Possibilities of all sorts,
Direct connection,
Understanding brought,
Through magic filaments,
That can’t be bought.
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When the Poet’s soul is moved,
It gushes forth,Obedient, to no rule,It’s some undefinedForce,That does it.Like the unravelingOf a golden spool,Could it be Love,That does it?
It doesn’t STOP!
Treacherously odious,Human conditionThat makes us want to fool,Hurt others,Even kill them!When they are our brothers.OH, despicable ones!That harm and plunderThe innocent,You are embedded with evilAnd the Devil’s thunder,Let all the weightOf truth and justice,Fall upon you,So you regret,All the evilThat in our HistoryDisgracefully, you’ve set.
Do poets count?
One, two, three, four,And more.
I lived for the moment,
But looking back,That never was the case.There are thing that you desireLike love made of passion and fireThat only luck and destiny can provideThere, our hands are paralyzed,Tied to our back,We are not apt in sculpting,A Love as a living Art.
There’s nothing better,
Than to be able to writePaint, interpret.Any Art practiced will do,For it is the greatest,Fulfillment and bounty,For what is the inner you.
Do good,
Love, NatureAnd protect it,Respect all lifeWithout exceptionTrue human perception,Coming to us,Charitably, naturally,Helping those in needNot using othersTo promote, our greed,Perceive the BeautyOf our Planet blue,And please, respect itLovingly, tooDo not try to controlThe innocent,With lie after lieAnd above all,Spread love and kindness,Do not make others cry.