lyrics [Theme] Page 1

Poetry - beautiful poetry, aphorisms - common sense!

After all, now the moon.
What else is necessary
Filled with slumber miriku?
Maybe with thick thighs
Secretly come "she"
And you could read
Your dead languid lyrics?

In a dispute physicists and poets defeated accountants.

The range of lyricism is very wide - from sadism to masochism.

I'm sorry I was snotty,
On the day of our "first" meeting.
Thought I then, naive,
And only hugged your shoulder.
Yes, you say, "what a fool!
I was waiting for more."
Then I was a sick weirdo
Words could not pull I longer.

Your soul's all right,
You don't need the monastery.
Go scopy potatoes in the garden,
And will meet Hercules soon.
And the hero - simple "ruler",
Rose thought in heaven.
There he learned that the Will of God,
You log into a blooming garden.
Don't be naughty you girl
Trust the wise male.
He wouldn't be a companion,
Come along to the "Palace".

When I hear your voice,
The angels descend from heaven.
Exalt the flesh and my mind,
In the city of Lights and Wonders.

Today I read Shakespeare,
A sonnet about time and love.
I realized I am motivated by the lyre,
Themselves in the verses showing again.

So, all this nonsense, Kura,
Don't believe the words you're so naive.
He just likes the shape
Which sports.
With thee he for a while, remember
He does not need your eyes.
Appreciate someone who will give it to you,
He will not leave you.... "Two."

And again evening, again verse,
He writes that the fire had died down.
Walks around a lot, "Bab",
And I just got a kebab.
But if you write seriously
Then say very sternly:
Now I need only one
Will remain with her forever.
She's the perfect girl,
I will start to multiply.

A lyrical poem is the musical expression of mental emotions by language.

A long walk, when the sky had fallen asleep
And protesting, the dogs ran into the house...
Let me get out my purse notebook.
I shall wait, but with great difficulty.

Harder difficult with the poet and with child to speak,
They have the naivete with wisdom go hand in hand.
In dealing with them necessarily very honest you have to be
The child and the poet hears from the false, as a musician, the sound.

Wandering woman-fall through the alleys of scarlet,
Where fallen leaves smell musty and spicy.
How sweet your freshness in anguish of decay,
You are a winter inevitability, you spring waiting.