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D W Jun 2017
and I am still seeking your shadow in the essence of every woman...
D W Feb 2017
Once my ego vanishes,
My desires are quenched by ultimate satisfaction,
Once my memories are forgetten
and sweapt by the withered autumn wind,
Once my ego, lust and memories,
Are gone with the withering wind,
Once that happens, my dear,
I will cease to exist.

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D W Nov 2016
Timelessly, limitlessly the braches soard to the sky,
Tirelessly, fatiguely the roots hit the core of earth,
From cerrulean heights to crimson dark depths,
Lied the distance between self and wisdom of heart,
Not sure if it is loftiness or suicidal thoughts of death,
Not sure if it is a revolutionary act of anarchy,
Or just a free spirit, free rebelious depart.
Lost, in knowing self, lost between the crowds,
Lost in my own thoughts, lost in my own mind,
Lost, a loner, I had been, thou I had seekth,
In the deepest roots of my heart,
In the most complex dark corners of myself.
D W Apr 2016
Have you known what lies underneath,
A simple promise, what it may conceal?
You say I adore you,
I say,
I can't live without you.
You say I admire you,
I say,
What happens, when you are gone?
Shall I live, or drown in eternal morn?
You say you are stunning,
I say,
You are breathtaking,
What happens, again when I breathe?
Would I find this pure air,
An absolute freedom, or despair?*

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D W Apr 2016
My doctor offered me a cure,
For my dull ill heart so pure,
He nodded his head,
And grabbed a paper instead,
Which he left next to my bed,
"Don't open it till I am gone,"
He said.

I waited for a moment,
Till I heard the cracking of the door,
He gentley slammed it for sure,
''Why would he do that?"
I said.

I took the paper to unfold,
To read what was untold,
My hands shivered,
My heart stopped,

It was eloquently folded,
Like the coffin of the dead,
His black ink on white,
His italic messed up writing,
Not a prescript, but a funeral,
Between those elegant lines,
He said,

"You, my dear patient,
Are lost in despair,
You are on earth,
With a lofty heart,
Pardon me,
Pardon my knowledge,
There is no cure for that,
You are a poet, cures are futile,
Medicine is useless,
Your desires are uncontrolled,
They are not meant to be,
But they are your drug,
You are addicted to that,
Pleasures are your weakness,
Such a lofty weakness,
But alas,
Such a dreadful terminal illness,
Try a poem a day,
As there is nothing to heal you with,
in my head.
A poem a day,
Keep me at bay."*

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D W Apr 2016
I met her for a while,
It lasted longer,
Or less than a while,
All I remember,
Just like that,
She came out of the blue,
All I have now,
Is a bitter feeling
For such a meeting,
All I have now,
Is a dead heart,
And lost mind in the blue,
She came,
She made me feel,
She left,
And ended the deal.
A meeting, a feeling,
Then a vivascious desire.
A departure,
An eternal regret,
For a soul I admire.
D W Apr 2016
I have written a rhyme,
Long time ago, and lost it in time,
In dark nights of no sleep,
It was like a feeling burried so deep,
Burning of eloquent desire,
Of all pleasures that I admire,
In a heart so clumsy and dire.
You came with a peculiar charm,
And easily found the lost rhyme,
You reminded me how to feel,
To share what I always conceal,
Your presence is like a kiss,
That blossoms on my lips,
Every time we could speak,
I imagined what could be,
A sin to imagine or acquire,
O those feelings and desire,
Shall I keep deep and conceal?
Shall I wait for you to find,
The way you found that rhyme?

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