Love and lust are poles apart.
Lust is chaos, love is art.
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I am a poem hunter,
The world's eighth wonder.
A man of word and letter,
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Though teachers are not kings,
yet they are the king makers.
Though teachers have not wings,
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I am present in your blood,
You will never wash out me.
I am ocean you are flood,
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She is the spotless girl, Longingly waiting for him.
It is the life in whirl,
That is entangling him.
She is an innocent girl,
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The Poem Hunter Beach,
Exists under beech.
In every young's hand,
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Is it anger or is it disgust?
Is it of love or a pose of lust?
I astonish why you never turn?
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Manners and fortune are extremely close relatives, as every poor deserves hunger.
It is true extrinsically, intrinsically who knows? Because every ill-mannered has become stone-hearted in the near past.
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