There are certain Mysteries,
Whose secrets, no one knows.
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Poetry,
That is simply so unique,The way it stresses, feelings, wordsNot sold at any boutique.Poetry, cradles feeling,As if it were her child,And makes us go into Beauty’s throw,With the strokes of some words,With a movement, not blurred,Of a pen, a heart and of Life.
Where is Truth?
That all sanity denies,We used to have a free press,Now they are all,Intrigues that depress.So where is the Truth?Do we really know?That the world has not changedThat nobody cares,That all is false promiseAnd illegal affairs,And finally that Truth depends,On the fluctuating powerOf the Storm or ill Wind,That blows and bends.
What a poem can do!
Too far reaching for words,Tumultuous feelings created,Remaining,Ever felt, ever heard.
Sometimes you regret,
Not being brave enough,To tackle all the starsHaving to let goToo soon,Not expressing whatYou really feel.Love is suchA passionate, delicateFlower,That so many timesWe let escape and witherFor not being sincere,Or afraid to confessWhat we really feel,But also by beingStupidity’s wardsAnd life’s Cowards.
Nothing and no one is neutral,
So,If Hope still springs in your heartsBeware,Of repetitive disastersPromoted by sly selfish MastersThat falsely say everyday,That They,Have only your interests at heart.
The best are those,
All at once,Are written,No hesitation,Just inspiration,Does not often happenBut when it does,‘What a Feeling! ‘Secret, MysticalDevine Sensation,Pure Creation!