What's your thought on my poem?

Rhythm of Love

It sounds in different frequencies,
It haves different tones,
the song of the birds don't match it,
not even geniuses in music
reach the glory it haves.

Whit up and downs it comes,
it can rise and fall
bringing to life lovely
or broken notes.
In the heart it relies.

Ancient souls felt it,
elders feel it and remember
the beautiful rhythms it supply,
young ones are charmed by it
seduced by the rhythm it haves.

Because of It’s rhythm
flowers bloom for a lady
In hands of an in love man,
because of it’s rhythm
two hearts together spark,
because of it’s rhythm
the world outcast hate
and embrace a heavenly sky.


Most Helpful Guy

  • Nice. Remember that nothing is more manly then poetry.

    Two favorites from J. Speilfield

    Tender is loves sweet embrace
    Red like wine
    And sweet like a meadow

    Young like a faun is loves nature
    Passionate as a dance
    And joyous as a child

    Undeniable is loves trueness
    Strong like a horse
    And lasting is its presence

    Such beauty is love
    Such joy is love
    Such passion is the youth in love


    From a park bench i see my darling standing by the rivers edge,
    From a park bench i see my darling standing amongst willows sweet.

    On this park bench i met my darling young sweet and bright,
    On this park bench i feel i will leave my darling old, frail, and bright.

    To this park bench my mind does wander when in sickness and spite,
    On this park bench i see my darling young sweet and bright.

    Ohh and one i wrote during am orchestral rivalry...

    In what depth of hell does this wretched sound swell?
    And by whom is this racket violently propelled?
    With their bows moving along strings with such a decree,
    that shall, without a doubt,
    Maketh my ears bleed.

    And by what mighty a mistake
    has this vile instrument been able to stay?
    Upon our green eden,
    It is still played!

    Oh with such despair do we wail and cry,
    For when the violas start to play the sane begin to cry!
    For the sound of the violas,
    In full swing,
    Is equal to the sound of a thousand cats tortured screams.

    Yet we shall allow them to stay,
    To play their songs,
    For taking pity upon them is the kindest thing of all.


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