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People have the strangest quirks
Saying things without words
Sometimes body language
Speaks more volumes than a politician
Like the girl standing next to me in line
Mentally arguing with the person in front of her
Forcing herself not to erupt
And slay her foe the snail woman
Because she has things to do
And the whole world should give a ****
After a while, you learn to read
Books magazines tablets people
Conversing chatting talking
In their own silent words
And you realize even the most shy
Have so much to say
Age has craftily crept into my body
But it has not yet found its way into my mind
My soul stands adjacent laughing
Knowing age body mind and soul
Will soon meet their maker
Some fall asleep
Some fall apart
Some fall in love
I trip and fall down
I’ve seen true love make cowards roar
In the face of a hungry lion
Climb Mountain peaks dive oceans blue
In search for the gates of Zion
Make men speak words they soon regret
Give their life up for an unsure bet
Cry more tears than the rain above
All these things men have done for love
To live in the sea of oblivion only in death to find fame,
This is the burden of the poet when gone they remember his name,
In life he is despised and rejected in dead he’s a hero to all,
This is a paradox of the poet this is the well in which he falls.
The depth of his words speak like Abel’s blood,
Crying from beyond the grave, now that he is gone immortality is gain,
The world is never more the same; he is praised for his grand orations,
And missed by friends who never called,
This is a paradox of the poet this is the well in which he falls,
So when he dies I say bring no roses, shed not a tear at his demise
For his words were true even when he was with you, had you just opened your eyes,
Tell not the world of his brilliance; speak not to fools of his charm
But give him his due while he is there with you, for he feels like any man other.
Why do poets offer their love
The sun the moon and the stars
When even in their wildest dreams
These things they will never have
Is it because love is a dream
That we sell to each other
Knowing deep down within our hearts
That every dream will wither
She had a magnificent soul
She had a playful heart
She had a very bad taste in men
So I guess I never had a shot
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