A Poet
The modern Poetess writes not because she wants to form words on a page, but because she loves the rhyming and verses that flows around in her head, getting the issue resolved for the next poetic generation to come:

Friday's are for dreaming,
Monday's are for reality check's
They never said it would be easy

The best things in life weren't meant to be
They're tough
Painful
And raw

Love can be a fire that you watch burn to ashes
Because you like broken pieces more than he knows
Vicious and unapologetic
Dark and cruel
A light knocking on its door

The fear in every chuckle
The reason for tomorrow
The past hurts and, present is pain
When you first fall, you never stop

Raindrops on roses
And bloodstains on lines
Razors and longsleeves
To keep her scars hidden
She jumped off a building
Like a bird without wings
Those were a few of her
Favorite things

Since killed them the Diclofenac
vultures never came back
riverside carcasses in the sun dry
with not one long wing to swoop from the sky.

But vultures around me still abound
preying on the living thriving all around.

~~~
When the wooden door leads a little,
To a force is put
In the erst of the body fleece wells,  
Sweet sweating as the dew is deposited

The clamor of the known birds,
Uttering,
Be filled,
North wind changes direction,
Comes through my southern window

When harmonic air,
Passed over the yellow paddy fields,
Farmers perches hope's aroma
Into the hearts  

At the mid of the noon,
Cowboys keep exhaustion on flute
Swelling of the new message,
Leaves
Flowers
Fruits

After a Long waiting,
Pied crested Cuckoo singing
Mating songs
The peacock repeatedly whispering peahen

My beloved,
Your one "April" desires
bought us,
Cuddly child as the light purple rose

And they say you
Sing your song of arrival
O' April O' come!
Once Again!

Show Your Cyclone form
Engross your soul
Bring the rain,
Chill the Nature
Add to birth New Child for the unscathed time
~~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

A
Poet
Shows their soul
On inked paper
A love not often heard but always felt
Emotions bled from their heart to fingers
Sewing broken letters together; their
Words dance across
Worn paper
'Ever
True

-ARI

The angels sang a song
the day he was born from
the heavens above. He
spoke words of love when
he was just young. Poetry
dripped off his silken poetic
tongue. His heart is pure as
organic fruit. His hands have
done no harm to anyone. They
make love to whatever they
touch. They can heal the broken
and bent. They can heal scars
and cuts. When he was born
heaven knew he'll be her chosen
one* ~