Talking to myself through poetry
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Fighters wear gloves to win
Trophies thrown in the bin
History tells of things
As it pleases, versions told.
Forgetting roots that hold
Forgetting ray but beams
Life is, a funny dream..!
Miserable but it seems
To have coat some sweet cream
And others bitter trims
Oh life is a short film
In case, it starts to dim
Don’t you fight or scream
At the end, no one wins.
Soon you will be off an infant cloth And may encounter storms, dust and rust Some achievements may seem a mirage Unachievable until success emerge…
Let the pages fly and spread their wings Let my spilled inks make millions to think It is plain and simple, hope it sinks “All…
Simple or made into an Elf What is music to a born deaf? Same question goes without tongues Pot or Chef, who spoilt the stock?…
It is no news that the pigs are fat As a result of the embezzlements Taking politics as a personal farm Eating from the labors…
