An ill poet
lost his words;
lain on a bed,
in home; so bad.
He takes a pill,
swallows. Still.
Nobody cares,
he is quite scare.
Words are his trades;
his life is too dread.
How poems be made?
Sigh. His eyes fade.
He still could remember,
when he is stronger,
all poets and poetesses,
acclaimed him with roses.
if you are sad think about happiness if you are happy think about sadness if you are sick think about healthy
Thanks, Sekharan Pookat. if you are sad think about happiness if you are happy think about sadness if you are sick think about healthy We never think about sad when we are happy. We never think about sick when we are healthy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
there's lots of truth about this poem i like it...
We need to ponder about our critical points in life.