But never dull,
So, away to discovery we go,
Where we’ll land?
We never know,
So much is written by itself,
Other times, by your secret elf.
Poetry!
Such a mystery,
In a few words,
Sometimes,
A whole life’s history.
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To be a Poet
Gales of emotion,And then you blow it!And people know it.Sensitive to almostEverything,When you’re going to cave,You know it,Exaggerating everything,Thru the colors of feelings,You want to touch Ecstasy,Thru worded rainbows of Fantasy,And you show it,And people know it.Yes, believe it or not,It’s hard,To be a poet.< br>To be a Poet.
So much to learn,
And yet,One indispensable vital need,Love to Live,Is all you really need.
Poetry,
Of new born RosesSurrounds thee,As you surround my soulWith new born visionsOf poetic benedictionsBeneath,Love’s magic fertile treeOf creativityI live butFor your call,Or not at all.
Doesn’t know what he’s doing,
Just sit here silently viewing,Our own future destruction.
For everything we have we should be grateful!
Filled with palpitating life-giving Light,But We, we don’t see the Light,We destroy the gifts, the gods gave us,Way back when, we were but a cell,With no destructive might,In the Night of Time.
Before there were friars,
Who can you believe, today?Communications are meantTo purposely deceive,And torment.Bombarded by false news,Invaded by trivia,Society falls,And decency stallsAs we all dance our wayInto oblivion,And spend maybe, another trillionAs we waste away,In just another useless day.