Why do we always want to know?
The essential things, that do not show.
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Poems are miracles
Like most Art form.I want to believe,We are moreThan just flesh and bone.But when we seeThe AtrocitiesThat some,So blatantly perform,We ask ourselvesIf we even deserveIn this world,To have been born?
Words are treasures with wings
Free, self-expression,And when they leave,A good impressionAn aura of learningAnd closeness, is felt,Creating, magical links.
You never have enough
And when they’re not there,It’s Hell, I swear
The Importance of Nothing,
Yet, amazingly often,The Truth remains veiled.
By the way, just wanted to say,
So much can be said in a Poem,Using practically no space,The golden worth of some poems,Is as fine as tightly spun lace
If Poetry
Should ever end,Where would we goTo cry our tears,To share our fears,To stay aliveWhere, could we go?