I am a poet without words, a poet that can't write,
I am a broken statue, a muse without grace,
My words don't flow and I can't sing, I can only recite
I am someone who has lost his will but still yearns for a name and face
A poet has to be a philodox,
For one must always love oneself,
But I am a living paradox,
A coin tilting between love and hate, an abnormality in itself
The war for words wages long and hard,
The words keep spilling out but fail to inspire,
In my heart there lies a bard,
A bard without a voice and a broken lyre
My muse is now dust and ash,
Perfection is the flaw I seek
No one seems to fit with me for our colors always clash,
My words don't flow for I am no ancient Greek
Pages upon pages I have torn,
For the words always come out wrong,
Every poem is met with anger and scorn,
For who would appreciate such a broken song?
My quill has fallen,
Let my body lie amongst the soil and let my name be forgotten
A:N= Where are the Aristotles and Platos?
Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
ČTEŠ
A Poem Called Life
PoezieRanked No.2 in Poetry, No.3 in Casual, No.2 in Prose, No.4 in Goodbyes, No. 2 in Lyrical, No. 26 in Nature, and No.21 in the Alive category! "There are words that can not be spoken, there are emotions that can't be named and there are poems that ca...
