Pain alone is just a stimulant.
Thousands of them exist, each one a thin sting.
Considered light by people, both words and letters,
Until their loads and shoulders impair them.
No reasons, something like love,
No aims, something called first impression,
No fortunes, what always called fate,
Only one life, with centuries of suffering.
Only one feeling, with limitless turmoil.
Only one ego, with all the rest foreigner..
Pains don't have poems,
Verse don't have language,
Words don't have name,
Wrongs, numerous in count,
Only courses there, not learned.
We call some of them love,
Some fate and some sorrow..
Meo - 2018
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