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Ovi Oct 2020

Anyone can turn
Anytime into a monster
Who would look at first
Who is here an Alabaster?

Everyone wants to move
Faster and faster
Who cares about the norms
Who is here that master

Keep up the beats so high
So we can't hear from the sky
Ignoring the rules, baby
Let's focus on all those means of joy

Turn on the lights
Turn on the lights
So, all we can see
What's the truth

All we understand;
is a fist or foot
Have we ever really
Escaped from the shade of boot

I don't wanna see
How lavish is his suit
He's an animal, a capitalist
Whose business walks on loot

Every time he speaks lie
For money, he could die
He's trynna be a God, yeah
Although, he doesn't comply

Turn on the lights
Turn on the lights
So, all we can see
What's the truth
The situation looks horrible when we look around to see what a man is doing to another man. Nothing is certain in this ephemeral world.
Zhavaed Haemaed Apr 2020
All great minds have been called insane .. Superfluous indulgence in petty day's gossip is not where human consciousness is supposed to find it's grave_Indeed ! They know not .. the beauty of the other side ..A place not easily accessible ... A bridge not visible.. The ladder too steep .. Or maybe hidden in plain sight !They see not ! They care not !
They just continue in their petty herds !
Of everyday groceries !
And predictable backbitchings !
How shallow, how very shallow !
Written to depict my dislike for the flawed existence we live everyday.
Shea Jan 2019
My Grandma told me,
About a poem she wrote
About a sunset on the
Key West shore
Painting poems to be
Ethereal and bright,
Full of beauty and
Which they are,

Here I sit,
Writing poems
About how much I'd love
To die.
Or writing poems
About what's inside my mind
Which seems to be
Dark and
Telling me to be
At the end of bights.
Lonely nights I've spent
Spend days travelling down
My brain to my pencil,
Tracing backwards
Symbols to conform to.
Writing these words
Like child's play to

So tell me,
What's the real meaning of poet?
Sunsets or an experience
Making poetry
Or poesy your only catharsis?
I think or hope it's both
But either way
Like most folks,
I still don't know what the hell
I'm talking about.
Morningstar dazzling my chamber
with shades of amber, I arose to the aroma of coffee,
and felt the bleeding ink in my veins
seeking for papyri to scrawl
my enduring love
for poesy !!
annh Jan 2019
I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game

Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse

I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee

Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink

Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best

But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend

For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part
Iambic pentameter - a line of verse with five metrical feet, each consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable.
Star BG Nov 2018
Where would a poem be,
without a readers eyes?
The glowing ***** that lead one to pool of soul.

Where would a poesy be, without inquisitive eyes?
The obe’s that pulsate to expand and explore written word.

Where would a sonnet be,
without eyelets that focus divinely?
The optics that have power to shift words into consciousness.

Where, oh where would a poem be,
without gazing eyes shaped like sun?
The vision seeds, that shine to cast their view upon a dream.
It came while chatting with  Jayantee Khare  Thanks JK
Shea Nov 2018
I'm searching but I can't find
A single life
That wants to deal with mine.
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