A hundred and a half of pages a day
Eats a lot of time a man could take
But through this, his life continues to break
Waiting for the book that would repay
A man’s stolen heart from the deep lake

Poetry is the collection of the best words the man could keep
Reaching as far or as deep as any hand would seek
Through the one thousand four hundred and forty minutes at the peak
Dreaming and scratching, unimportant passengers come to leap

Words come and go, through the mind and mouth of younger souls
Searching for the exit sign, trying their best to crawl
Broken nails and calloused flesh, don’t bother a bit on each fall
The end is better resting on the hope of all weeping call

Once he thought that he could really be
Then reality knocks and breaks all of him
Cursing, lying, telling the truth for all to see
No one’s going to survive the fate to flee

This is the poetry of illusion-filled dream
Hopping as joyously as anyone would ever be

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