It feels too much
Sees too much
Wants the Truth
Too much
Loves too much
Is oversensitive
And hurts too much!
Dangling fears,
On crystal chandeliers
Poetry cries
It’s melodious Tears…
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Writing in the clouds,
Normal, less normal, insane,Some people like to read,The Clouds that Poets write,But living in the Clouds,A danger signal is,For even famous poets,Cannot fully describe,The Mystery that life Is!
Some have so much to say,
Sad is the Silent morning,The Silent night,When language took Flight,
Was Paradise ever ours?
But creating Hell on Earth,It is We that fan the Winds,That do so.
The eloquent sunset,
The ocean that once saidCome with me, be freeHas lost all its blueness,Its strong liberty,Now trapped in the sadnessThe unprepared madnessOf having to beAlone, in the darknessOf this painful litany,That repeats and repeatsOver and over and overAgain,Love, so hard to appearCan simply one dayAlso, disappear.
Beautiful Poetry,
As it ages, it becomes divine.
Great Films,
Laced with emotion,Soaring in the wind,To places where,Not even imagination,Has ever been.