Nowadays, is this a world for poetry?
Anyway, I suppose there couldn’t be.
And this may seem like a promotion
But I assure you people
It feels more like slow motion.

If you were to write poetry,
Say now.
What would you write about,
And more importantly, how?
This audience of children
Surely cannot understand
They couldn’t possibly comprehend.

Well the reason I write
Is because my voice cannot sing
Nor rap or any other popular thing,
But back then it was great
To write a verse, a perfect stanza
For the Greek meaning of ‘poetry’
Is to merely create.
So I do ask this generation
My most important question;
Why wait?

Poetry.
Don't worry if you don't have the time
Because it doesn't need a beat.
It doesn't need a rhythm.
It doesn't even need to rhyme.

                               So if your rap is weak
               Or your voice a little too meak
                                 You could try poetry
                               Come on, take a peek.

Poetry doesn't need story.
No, don't worry, it won't be boring.

                       All you need is a message.
                    Something as simple as "Hi"
                         Or as deep as "Goodbye."

The true beauty of being a poet,
           Is if you know how to to write.
                         Then you already own it.
                              Just take a chance.
                 Look through my eyes.

Meet me not
by the light of day
let the fever and fret
pass its way-

meet me then
where none would see
us and I'll open my heart
to you and tell my story

love has a strange tendency
it asserts what it should be
the day mars its beauty
the night is tender and holy

meet me when you are ready
I'll be under that willow-tree
waiting for the words you will say to me
come then, like a fairy--come, set me free.

Melancholy.

   A pink rose.

Rain.

  Distant piano.

Loneliness.

  Cassette tapes.

  City nights.

   A cheap cigarette.

   Three white stripes.

    Couple of camera flashes.

    Wearing a face mask.

    A spontaneously special moment.

O, the struggles of the young 'adult'
Trying to fit in,
Yet somehow the 'social' cult
Takes away the souls that are pure
And curses them
Till they no longer endure.