Light in your eyes
The song in the cerulean sky
The blue reflects in your sighs
The electricity is getting behind
I wish you would leave my shoe in the dust
The dust in your eyes
Remove your ambition
The thought like cyan
The intelligence reflected in color
And smartness in colored opinion
Overwhelmed by arguments and lessons
The prime of your protest is in a banner of the sundry
Marched asunder
The revolution came in the summer
But, the sky was red and flagged for communist propaganda
The red wave has now become a progressive idyllic
The cynics in the skeptic's eyes' look dismissive about the west wind
The ode to freedom is wrought with poetic
This is the secret lives of poets
The objects that make it sufficient for me
Fill my imagination with food for thought
Sometimes, contrivances are part of this logical progression
Are we going forward by doubting ourselves
Or keeping a hush on the activism
Except some people believe that words can make the difference
Between extremist ideology and where does, poetry comes
That's where the explicit matter is nudged in the middle
Of the secret lives of poets
In this sequestered sense, we are simply monikers looking for our own identity
As nameless, and spineless some people are
Writing helps liberate the mortal soul
Without forsaking your fame, you cannot have ideas
Hurt by this double-edged sword
We are the secret life of poets bound by welcoming words
And we found solace in our beautiful minds
That makes you special if you cannot write the special heading
On the road, the poetry page doesn't make interference in your daily lives
Tresses past which we are addressing our opinions, this is some mysterious separation of rhyme
In the secret lives of poets, we have no time
But, the eternal reflection can be quite quarrelsome if you don't seek compelling stories out of the waters that reflect in the iridescence
In this colorful descent, there is a question that lies
Where the yellow submarine is, there lies love for the underwater.
That's the state life in which we are, affected by the pronouns
With which we refer to the secret life of poets and the subject pronouns make sense when you accuse poetic device of being restrictive
That's where the secret lives of poets are engrossed poetic devices
The verbs are derivative of their nouns, and thinking is just an object
Secretly we are obsessed by this object of our wishful thinking
Writing about long stories, I revel in the concept of impressive interlocution
But, enough about me
This is a secret poetic plea
Believe us, probably
Intensity inasmuch
The extent of possible outcomes
I was hopeful about this poem, which was slightly influenced