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Literature Text
This is the page of thieves that robs the artistic eye
Where poets give a rhyme for every dime and crumb:
Valiantly in certainty I would say, "Not I!"
Howbeit, know not what my work will become.
To Man's wealth, abundance and boon,
They steal his visions, prowess and wits,
Of unshaven bristly timber, is roughhewn,
Whose merits traded for callous profits!
O' what fine taste prosperity has!
Drink it too much you lose your pizazz.
Yet for the poor man in need and in dearth,
Imagination comes ripe and thumps the earth!
Where poets give a rhyme for every dime and crumb:
Valiantly in certainty I would say, "Not I!"
Howbeit, know not what my work will become.
To Man's wealth, abundance and boon,
They steal his visions, prowess and wits,
Of unshaven bristly timber, is roughhewn,
Whose merits traded for callous profits!
O' what fine taste prosperity has!
Drink it too much you lose your pizazz.
Yet for the poor man in need and in dearth,
Imagination comes ripe and thumps the earth!
Literature
glass heart
till friday
i’m me
till friday
i’m free
and then on friday
i’ll return to this prison
that i used to call home —
dance behind the chains sneaking around my heart
squeezing, till i bleed happy tears
when i see your hazel eyes again
it’s nothing but stars under a dimly lit room
brighter than the aquamarine and diamonds that hang above my chest
that i clutch and finger;
a weak grip on a reality slipping
dangerously into fantasy; here
you touch here i crave
and our fingers and lips are dancing with our feet
till midnight, it’s blue and black that hide the flowers
blossoming into fulfilment when we’re c
Literature
Moon of my Heart
When I reflect on her, I think of the Moon.
So alive and filled with magic,
never too bright, or too dim,
she hangs in my night's sky like a beacon,
showing me the truth of myself,
To gaze upon her is to dream endlessly of her touch,
yet remain a million stars apart.
She is neither here, nor there,
flitting effortlessly across my heart,
like a wayward ship upon a glass ocean.
And I will love her
till the End
Literature
Persistence
Persistence
At the end, only the words persist
The feelings,
like flowers in the Winter,
crumble
Just the words remain:
Loneliness,
Emptiness,
Silence
They speak of feelings that no longer fit them
They speak of dreams and desires without echo
Just the words remain:
written in the endless cold of the night
mistaking delirious with hope
My poetry remains singing the meetings
but it's only about the searching
but it's only about the mismatch
My poetic universe is made of black holes
It is starless nights
It is deserted planets
Just the words remain:
"I love you",
"Kiss Me",
"I need you"
These, however, I do not recognize,
They are legend
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THERE IS [NO] AUTHORIZATION TO USE MY WORK IN ANY WAY, SHAPE,
OR FORM IN YOUR WORK. [NO] DOWNLOADS ARE ALLOWED.
COPYRIGHT © VicariouSoul. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Take NOTE: this poem may not apply to everyone. Nonetheless,
based on my experiences and what I have seen when a writer
of any kind or Artist becomes famous, wealthy or known,
their work does not live up to expectations, failing to impress.
Take Salvador Dali for instance. In the 60's, his art was true and
full of countless artistic values. Almost any work he did in the 70's,
however, were more rushed and drawn for the money, hence,
lacking the message(s) or idea(s) he was trying to convey.
Conclusively, Losing your conscience in money,
taints all that's sweet as honey.
Enjoy everyone!
© 2012 - 2024 VicariouSoul
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