I was inspired to write this poem after encountering Plato`s "Republican", it was a bit insulting for a Greek philosopher to take Poets as being people who write of what they do not know of. This was mostly a way of convincing myself that i was a better being than what Plato described me of being.
Finally the young brethren
has risen from the ashy bed of his grave.
The skeptical writer is now being seen once in a blue moon,
as he takes refuge beneath Hitler's growling voice.
Enigma of the soul, believing that my thoughts shall swim offshore to the heavenly islands, a soul starving for lust,
but Plato has made me realize that poets serve their words on silver plated mentalities.
Savaged by pride and jealousy, writing to prove who was wiser than Socrates' lips.
Timeless medieval thoughts of wisdom, crops bearing no food, just words with no marital meanings, favored by lyricists who believe that poetry is an immature beauty's lullaby.
They call it art, it's a tone from the heart, the verses in the winds waiting to be inhaled by a king.
A word with words within, a world painted by Gothic fonts of Greek .
They say it's a lullaby for the wilting flower, though it's the word that began the whole spectrum of life, for in the beginning was the word to flesh, when the gods spoke and man appeared to be seen.
I heard Plato forming rivalry against poets through destruction like NATO, he spoke of the wisdom we wield as being the diction of our words,
the rhymes and the similes.
But he forgot that the word was the source of existence even though Philosophy would berg to differ.
Our reality is that of the Goldilocks enigma fantasized by artisans, led by politicians, written by poets, calculated by accounts, then destroyed by the diverse dream of change.
When kings were sorrowful, poets would be flares in their nights, poets are legions of the word, making verbs more majestic to man.
When the sheep lose their paths, we are the harps that are played by the shepherd David to guide you to a favorable path, our existence is now satisfying pride, when the sun is dark, we become the moon of hope.
This is the enigma of a true poet's soul, which bears principles and looks up to the right way of truth.
By Eugene ` Philosophisticater`
It brings out the emotions of one who is dying at their own hands.
A chilling horror story about a child doll seeking revenge.
Where I live and a bit of my lifestyle
A child's dream about his work and the scare for not completing it.