Is a poem a song you speak?
Is it the music of the soul?
Is it a random, over-analysed hypothesis?
Does it have meaning as a whole?

Does anybody care,
About the words we post on sites?
The pain that makes good poetry,
Does it make us parasites?

Do we **** the blood of sorrow,
Till its bitter juice is done?
A ton of bloated leeches,
Belching back the pain we've won?

Is my anguish worse than yours,
Because I write it like a song?
Do you care about my heart,
Because my sonnet reads so long?

Are my poems just graffiti,
On the tombs of poets dead?
Is a poem really better,
When it's torment that's been said?

There's something I desire like
Dripped honey on strawberrys
It's scent delicate and ravishing

We are the universal harmony
Through which human warmth
Survives hidden from cosmic wind

Celestial incantations float airily
Beyond everything inessential
Being joyful of the incidential

And we should treasure each sip
Thoughts running in time like grass
Reflecting lifes own  peace endlessly