Among various rhymesters
and other erudite word-masters
I wonder what for do I look
by writing poetry, rather than cook ...
The apiece straight in his mind makes
any song with rhythm, his heart breaks
as his soul let his music flow
pounding his drum and where the go!
The one sings with nice rhyme or philosophy
to attract noble souls in his company
The other for his sorrows starts writing
he hates philosophies, he needs crying
All write, what they call poetic
to cut them, shame! But it's not logical
in the poets' bouillon to go astray
and wait "thumbs up" to find in your way ...
I won't argue I didn't have with Poetry
a crush passerby nor bigotry
she passed within me intravenously
I go along with her every night anxiously
I'd say that although she's female
My passion for her goes up a legendary scale
She shocked me inside voluntarily
she has penetrated in my soul unexpectedly
She flipped me inside out
pushes me to my limits just before burn out
she's jealously gnawing my time always
from all what I loved she separates me any ways
I show her off as my luxury courtesan
and I flaunt as if our love was apogean
I satisfy every of her excesses
I think she drags me helpless amid her "silk panties"
It 's a conceit to argue that I have her
once I desire her then I cannot withstand her
I adore her: she let me express myself frank when suffocated
without being subjugated to the crowd's"loyal and sacred"
