Poem - Verses of Pain
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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,
Completely seditious.
No aims, something called first impression,
Completely fallacious.
No fortunes, what always called fate,
Only duplicitous.
No counts,
Only one life, with centuries of suffering.
No worries,
Only one feeling, with limitless turmoil.
No respect,
Only one ego, with all the rest foreigner..
Pains don't have poems,
But verses.
Verse don't have language,
But words.
Words don't have name,
But burns.
Wrongs, numerous in count,
Only courses there, not learned.
All among,
We call some of them love,
Some fate and some sorrow..
Meo - 2018
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'Mehmet Şentürk
