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I see a different world
Through these words I say
I write tbem down
And they read a thousand eyes
In different ways
Could you see what I mean
If you heard what I dreamed
Inside my pen
Or would you paint me crazy
In the colours of your canvass
I'm not much of a poet
And even less of a writer
In my world I'm just a lonely observer
I see a different world
Than the one we live in
If my pen is a sword
Than I've certainly committed ******
Through these words I say
I hope they've entertained
Because I cant see the reason why
They're written
Alone in a poem
Only for one

His eyes so dolor
No one had come

He wrote what he felt
And his heart came to melt

When nobody cared
What he wrote for the crowd

Alone in a poem
A poet at home

Yet no one would know
The elysium he owned
I'm a fool
Neva kno wut to do
I listen to the sermon
Then I make my own rules

I'm such a fool
But I act so cool
When I don't kno wut I'm doin
No matter how much I'm schooled

I listen to the teacher
And then I break the rules

I'm a fool
I'm such a stupid fool

I don't kno nuthin'
Now what am I gonna do

I can't learn anything
I ever want to

Cuz I'm a fool

A fool

Neva kno wut to do

I listen to everyone
But nuthin' gets through

Because I'm so stupid
I'm the dumbest dude

I listen to the preacher
Yet the devil consumes

I'm such a fool
Such a godt ****** fool

How could Jesus love
        Such an imbecile
  3d JaxSpade
As raindrops sparkling on a spiderweb,
strong and fragile,
they are all beautifully connected
  3d JaxSpade
UNHURRIEDLY, THE days sink scarce, over sleepy cabins, banked breath fog the cold villages thick in white fire as if dying had a say made seeable. Now, in the shadows flake why not us illuminate the ghostly fever in silent resurrections.

It is a listless rhapsody.
It is love slumped.
It’s all the adrenaline of the grove
Among the ***** of the breeze,
It’s beyond the blue by boney antlers
A choir of tiny voices.
O delicate and crisp the daisies whoosh!
It chirps and sighs,
As the hoarse grass at last breath -
Under rapids that turn
The worn rolled pebbles,
This sorrowful soul
In this quiescent whinge.
Is it not ours? Yours and mine!
Whose unpresuming antiphon
By this cozy eventide; moonflower?

(c)  HollyD Poetry
So, if you've toured a realm where the sol sets shallow and closing times cinder unsuspectedly through the AM. You'll know the opposite arrives impossibly evident as well, eh?
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