Frequent friction when love becomes political.
Does anybody remember the day when family was family, a woman was a woman, and a man was a man?
I cry looking at our reality, through slave eyes. I bet they would say our generation has crossed the line.
Poetry’s circular fulfillment was so persistent, when I was weak it gave me strength.
Let thy words be few. I agree, but only if my ink can relentlessly run.
One word can turn into a book just as one poem should never be overlooked.
It's never too late to get down on your knees and pray.
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