Stalwart Dull Jul The way she smiles, My heart was melting Even if she needs to walk a thousand miles She never stopped on dreaming. You see her with courage At her young age But deep inside was a girl Who's still getting ready at this stage dependency was a craaaap!
But standing by herself will make her to the top And so she did, She's making a step up. Alena Jun She was my reason to life.
She was my reason to life, I was sinking in her every moment, She was kind of a knife, That can hurt you in any moment, Her brown eyes and dark hair, I fell in love but even didn't notice, I was waiting for her under stair, Just to her grandma didn't notice, We were kissing at her sofa, And I felt her soft hips and gentle lips, With the taste of cherry coca, And all I wanted is holding her tight, Laying on her chest, Hugging her waist, And she was the best, But I wasted her, I wasted.
Benzene Jun She is like Water. She is like water running through the valley drifting through the rocks the rocks make unable to move unable to grow unable to flow Takes away her ability to contribute, but, Water is meant to flow to the Ocean, Not to be contaminated, By the pollution of your opinion. She is like water surrounded by things still finds ways crashing every barrier comes in her way She want to rehydrate the minds, That have been compressed, That have been dehydrated, She want to refresh the dry ideology.
She'll nurture the barren land of old thoughts. The great Sky over Austerlitz. The old Oak near Otradnoe. The Hut at Mytishchi. The platform at Astapovo Station. In the Backyard in a Billabong Bikini. I'm grateful to be a women and want to be a better woman each day. Good to know that you compose songs. There are many helpful videos available on the Internet, which might help you in this regard. Wikihow is one such example. There are useful articles as well, giving you step by step procedure to upload your own songs on YouTube.
It is considered promotional. I also write songs and compose them. I have written many till now. I wish to record them and upload them on YouTube. I wish to start a music career. But I honestly don't know the procedure If you could help me out.. I would really appreciate it.. I hope this request is not too much. I am Srianshu Mahadas. I love your poem. It was beautiful. I have written two poems on this site.
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears—but where?
You know not, And that's the reason why you do—or do not. But what 's this to the purpose? You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;' And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine 's a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. The world is all before me—or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;— Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.
I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that 's to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. But 'why then publish? I ask in turn,—Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? It occupies me to turn back regards On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink—I have had at least my dream.
I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I 've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— The one is winning, and the other losing. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts— And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts; And were her object only what 's call'd glory, With more ease too she 'd tell a different story.
Love, war, a tempest—surely there 's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos.
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