Hello
Hi! Everyone, My name is Nitin, 19.
This is a small collection of poems and short stories of many of our favourite poets and authors.
Glee is the act of being ever blissful,
Bliss is a quality of the soul, something we are all born with....
I too write some disastrous poetry. (I could actually write down this much English due to auto-correct system in Windows.) Anyways, my other blog is https://www.felicityflows.blogspot.com/
Here, there are some more poems (mostly poems), many of which are my own.
Now, Coming to tell You about this page...
Welcome To My Felicity, A part of My Paradise
Felicity is the feeling of being happy beyond measures and this literature or writing down something of my own gives me the same; if not felicity, peace atleast.
 |
| Stay Happy and feel the Felicity within... |
Poem : a piece of writing in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by particular attention to diction (sometimes involving rhyme), rhythm, and imagery.
This page is not specific to the verses that have for long being rehearsed throughout the world. They are about all verses in general.
"Every Man's a Poet, for feelings stir in each. Though he may not have the richest of language to his disposal, his heart is the vassal of his thoughts...that is where the songs come from...."
This is just for Hi!!! How are You?
Though this one is not pretty the one that sounds introduction!!!
This fear of being what they are:
dead.
at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.
their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.
a dog standing behind a fence.
a man silent at the window.
dead.
at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.
their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.
a dog standing behind a fence.
a man silent at the window.
Hello, How are You??
- Charles Bukowski
Comments are of course Welcomed, if any!!!
Tis, a beginning of the unheard tales
Comments
Post a Comment