Poet's Ballad

Why do people love unreachable things? Is it the beauty of longing? The misdirected profoundness of wanting something you can’t have? And then writing poetry about it again and again. My poets are often masochists I am willing to extend my pain As long as I make an art of it I wanna hold you tightly in my arms But I’ll stay just as far as I can’t touch you I’d love to feel happy but sadness is my daily routine Healthy diets are great and all but I’d rather live off coffee and alcohol Maybe I should go out of this state of misery But it makes the artist in me feel inspiring Someone said that they thought poetry was the fruit of love It can be when it’s love directed to your own self-loathing And an all-encompassing desire to out-melancholy The famous writers who died being most unhappy But are praised for the fruitage of their despair Am I being honest or fair? What’s not to love about art in the form of suffering? Especially if it re...

Albeit breeze does always come intensively, Its whisper does remain voicelessly as usual; Why does he still disavow his existence? Keep pretending to stand still behind his silhouette; Succumbing is the best reconciliation for him; To contemplate what he could yield for and not; There is no tempest with equanimity within; Like a perforated void devoured each loneliness within. When tempest grows up, breeze want to go from the beginning A bent knee hurts much less than a broken heart; Even after he finds that the world goes bad Should he let the wickedness devour him ?