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poetry

Society

Lily for death, 
Rose for love. 

Peaceful white, 
Blackened grief. 
Conformity, 
Commitment, 
Society's needs. 

Defiant purple, 
Eccentric green, 
Stereotyped words, 
Silently mean.
Society's norms. 

Valentine love, 
Happy Birthday. 
Presents, wishes, 
Flowered phrases. 
Society's call. 

Careful questions, 
Implicit meaning. 
Unneeded advice, 
Jealous eyes. 
Society's dealing. 

Vulgar red, 
Old cream. 
String of pearls, 
Words of wisdom, 
Society's help. 

Unheeded path, 
Break away. 
Take control, 
Run away. 
Society's hit. 

Culture's dead, 
Language reformed.
You? 
Or the society? 
Importance informed. 

Path steeped,
Difficulties arose. 
We fought back, 
And here we are, 
Society's lax. 

For the better, 
Or for worse, 
Society's banded, 
Forevermore.
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Hope

Hope.
The word seemingly strong,
Light in reality,
Lifts the hearts of many.
Amid the despairing rejections,
The future quietly beckoned.

Hope.
Reminded the ambition,
Called back the dwindling motivation.
Four letters,
Struck a chord, 
Within many.

Hope. 
Gave the past
Another chance to be forgotten.
A book, a talk, a magical dance,
Carried it far, 
Made self-worth strong
In many.

Hope. 
The most valuable thing,
It oft resurfaced.
And, in many a difficult time,
Help, it did bring, 
To me, and to others,
Many.

Hope. 
So carry it in yourself,
Seek it out.
When it refuses to return,
Give it chances,
Many.

Hope. 
It's everywhere you look,
Bright little corners and nooks.
In wise words,
Weakly heard,
Spoken across centuries,
To people,
Many.

Hope.
It's the best in all you see,
In all you experience.

Hope. 
So seek it,
Don't let it be.

Hope. 
So give it,
For all to see.

Hope.
So keep it,
Always, within reach.
 


Imagination

A thought struck, 
Collided with another. 
Fallen milk with a shower, 
Turned to snow stuck,
To the ground. 
On a quiet winter day, 
A thoughtless whisper, I say. 
It turns into a dialogue.
My imagination and I, 
Twist tales and lie. 
Argue and reason,
Throw ideas around for fun. 
Then, work beckons.
Yet, the mind still drifts.
Twenty years from now, 
With a book all done, 
A writer takes a bow.
Puts down his pen, 
As the photographer,
Adjusts his lens. 
Five more years, 
And the photos most dear, 
Are painted with a careful hand. 
What next? 
Another occupation,
Slowly takes a stand. 
The dog outside barks,
Good Lord,
Two hours have passed!
Reality seeps in,
Reason takes up the reins.
To boring now, I return. 
Reluctantly, its importance,
I affirm.
With a cup of milky tea, 
By the side. 
I turn up the light, 
And set forth, 
On my responsibilities tonight.


The story of life

The page turns,
And compels the new day to rush forth.
As destiny writes on, 
Never looking back,
Always keeping ahead of man. 
Going mile after mile,
As the pages turn, 
The end is near. 
The book writes itself. 
And, by the end,
Each life,
Is, but a story unique
In its own way.
Equally enticing,
Equally worthwhile,
Equally consuming.

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