The Decadence, the Lies come home,
Our very thoughts, no more our own.
Morality and love of Good,
They are no longer understood,
Decadently, we say goodbye,
For Love of Country, now we cry.
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I love Words,
What in me hurts,They speak my dreams,Those had, had not,And calm the thirst,I’ve always had.
The joy to look up at the sky,
Whatever is that poets do,But that gives me no great content,For I know not where freedom went,It seems that violence and deep lies,Have taken over all that slides,Right into oceans of despair,And no one really seems to care,Our world divided into partsWhile Fools keep pushing crooked carts.
We feel so much,
About our inner sentiments,Yet they are there,Coming from where?Sometimes so sad,Sometimes, God sent,But always ours,As temperament.
What does inspire us to Write?
A sudden scene, a sudden fright,Or just imagination’s flight?Love’s always good, the best of all,But is not always there, on call,And then there’s sadness and there’s pain,When Love is gone, creations wane,You feel you’ll Never write Again!
Raw animal hide in our veins,
Our humanity breaking all reins,Angel or Demon or Both?The Mystery still remains!
You are,
Out of kilter,Out of normAnd out of form,Free, exciting,Passion tornWhere roses growAnd verses flow,Where spirit streams,Infinite dreamsWhere only poetsWant to go,Where Love is bornSometimes a rose,Sometimes a thorn.