Like Cupid’s Life-Giving arrow,
Love turns Poetry into Art
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Easily depressed,
Poet, writes his song,Hoping to progress,Put his mind at rest,Maybe, sometimes,Even solving, just a bit,Of what is wrong,With a poetic caress.
I wish I were a painting,
Then things would never change,And all would be alright.Sometimes I like to play,A foolish grand escape,But manage just to hide,Behind my old black cape.
I dream of you,
An image hardly touched,But when, my love,You love this way,One word can mean so much!
Poetry, Life’s perfume.
A whole garden of prose.
Rock a bye baby,
Up in the Clouds,Surviving somehow.Lies are just rampant,Danger is too,What in this World,Are we going to do?One small step forward,Backwards take two,Civilized, Really?Nobody knew!
Art talks,
For peace and understanding,By love and creation,Making Beauty, its single Nation.
Is it because,
Your secrets it knows,
Sooths you, as it goes,
When you cry,
And in reality
You don’t even know Why.
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Of spoken Hate, there is so much,
Yet Language is supposed to be,A gift we use more sensibly,Good communicability,A sweet recall of memory,That tells of Life’s secret affaires,And has but Love with All to share.
We are supposed to know the difference,
Innumerable texts written about it,So how come we haven’t learned yet?How to live honestly, working for what we get.
So hard to find,
So EasilyLost!That kindred,Soul,That Love,That wasAll,You ever wantedOut of Life.
When a man
And there aren’tMany so,Those, that can beHate him,Attack himWant him, away,Let goDon’t want itTo be soThat’s how lowSome things called menWill go.Bear this in mindBefore judging someoneYou really don’t know,And that by liesAnd false propagandaHas been treated,So unfairly, soAnd lied about,‘Democratically’Hoping you wouldNever, know! ! !Do not let the truthBe murdered,Your blood will beThere too!
The poet said,
LikeNoneBeforeSung!It triggers feelings,That’s what all gunsShould be for.I am definitely againstAll Violence,All fire arms,In all countries,In all places,And in all cases,Except in the CaseMentioned in the title,Above.You may find this poem strangeBut I’m sick of peopleShooting each otherIn close or far range.PEACE,How long does itHave to be,SEARCHEDTo be,REACHED!
What good is living?
We don’t want to give up,LIFE,Until our last breath,We are seeking,The reason, why we cling to life,The reason, why we ARE.