My business is words. Words are like labels,
or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
I confess I am only broken by the sources of things;
as if words were counted like dead bees in the attic,
unbuckled from their yellow eyes and their dry wings.
I must always forget how one word is able to pick
out another, to manner another, until I have got
something I might have said…
but did not.
Your business is watching my words. But I
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I praise the wise and respect the wisdom of every old and young, for when they speak they pave the way to every poem or song.
There is a charm in all their words and phrases short or long. In what they say you should believe until you prove them wrong.
When wisdom speaks I always listen to thoughts of brilliant minds, just like a gem or precious stone or gold in haunted mines.
I feel the words and see them spark in corners everywhere, sometimes I even smell their scent floating in the air.
A set of words in form of art could take your breath away, for classy words will make you feel in heaven you want to stay.
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Sticks and Stones
Sticks and stones can break your bones,
but it’s words that really hurt you.
Language that systematically undermines
one’s culture, race, religion, or sexual orientation
slowly dehumanizes and degrades
until hate and violence become acceptable,
normalized, even inevitable.
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People often say I talk a lot, but I hardly think that is true,
Like the whispers about the bluebird, of which he never knew.
Talking helps a lot with my job, which is in public relations,
As modern artists' imaginations, help to create new sensations!
At last I was on vacation though, relishing in blooming pathways,
As I followed the sun, not looking back, on the endless highways.
The scenic route is always best, when you have plenty of time;
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I have dreams on moonless nights,
when violet the skies
with dark complexion.
In some speech,
my words may rhyme,
in lucid dreams I have seen their reflection.
Verses do visit in my sleep,
senseless they are or in forms of perfection.
Just like monuments of saints or priests,
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As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
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In twilight's hush, where secrets fade like mist,
The trees recount their tales through rustling leaves,
Each branch a testament, a history kissed,
Yet all around, the silence weaves and weaves.
From crumbled stones, where ancient echoes sleep,
Stray thoughts like fleeting shadows creep and tease,
Minds turned to ponder, where the stillness keeps,
What truth lies buried 'neath the surface ease?
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The language of love requires no translation,
The language of trust needs no explanation,
The language of honesty needs no interpretation,
The language of wisdom requires no noise,
The language of kindness requires no words.
To all you rhymers that like the beat,
come join the rappers on the street.
It's time for us to hear the best,
we gonna put you to the test.
Bring on all words that rhyme,
for every verse must sound sublime.
We got no time for idle sounds,
the finest rhymes will be renowned.
So if you think your game enough,
Let’s hear you play some rapper stuff.
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No words shall please my soul,
if not from deep within.
In life we laugh and weep,
as moods with time do spin.
Even a poet does need a flare,
to devise his ringy rhymes.
To sculpt a verse from solid words,
is a masters work, sublime.
When fine words mingle and mix,
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