Write Fantasy Poems

In the fabric of night, poets craft their dreams,
With the thin thread of the moon and fingers intertwined with falling stars.
They seek perfection in the...

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In times to come, heavy as steel that freezes stories yet untold,
The sky wraps itself in ash of thoughts yearning to be confined.
Silent streets converge...

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In the silent kingdom of lost seasons, where shadows measure the silence,
A day will dawn when you let the burdens of confession fall like leaves,
An...

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Beneath the everyday attire, the spirit falls ill, dormant,
In the monotony that seems an eternity of silver smoke, contingent.
Boredom weaves its fabric between walls of...

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In the shadow of the system, I withdraw in silence,
Watching as the sky effortlessly weaves the white of clouds.
To the vast game of the world,...

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In the days that gradually thin, sprinkled with the last strands of sand,
Evening descends upon my old and warm soul,
Bony and stiff fingers, yearning for...

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We, the generation of '50,
Time-travelers with stardust in our hair, with memories planted in pockets,
Rooted in decades embraced by change, souls adorned with the dawn...

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I will not leave untaught,
With what color freedom shines.
Not a stranger on this Earth,
But a citizen of the whole planet.
And as truths unfold,
What you feel...

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Below the veil of twilight, memories sway in the moon's oaring,
Effigies of the departed rise like incense smoke amongst ruins.
They have sprinkled us with pale...

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The only immortal beings are the poets...
in whose heart the hourglass of the cosmos turns,
Their words are the blood coursing through the veins of eternity,
And...

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At the age of five,
I started written at walls.
But I don't remember why I'm do that thing.
Everyday always makes me wonder.

And the times goes by.
And...

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Poetry is a drug, mixed in the alchemy of the night,
An elixir of never-ending dreams, the bitter drink of wandering souls,
Poured into the empty goblets...

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Poetry is my mistress 
I write everything in her name. 
If you’ve not heard from me in a while 
It is poetry to whom you...

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              uh sip uv hot coco

      ...

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You began to write the history of your life
With a kind of fear;
I know not why you are so great;
O, Helen, to me, you are...

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