My poems cannot be interpreted for you
Love, the word that connects youth, is now drowned. A river.
Arriving in July at a skyrocketing rate.
Instantaneous, lifelong love.
Poured it all in
Not a moment was saved, the memory of a mothball.
One key, one door
Like the *** of the drug
It's like death again.
The season of growth of all things is like a painting splashing ink;
Dead loved ones!
I'm tired of my poems.
Can't explain ...... for you
The world is small, and there is only room for a needle hole.
Contraction of the lips, sometimes because of time.
And sucking scars. Crime.
Always blinking innocent eyes like that.
This is your territory, a city full of rain;
Anchovy bamboo and giant shrimp, with their own fantasies.
Stars and Sky .
The imagination of the night
The sun sets on the face of a walker.
The dream was forcibly dragged away.
There are no ropes, only emptiness.
Only the wind whines.
The imagination of the night
Even the torrential rain was full of curses.
Cynics.
Sit on the face of sanity.
And then there was unconscious pallor.
Again to the field.
It's the future of abandoning no one knows.
When the dark clouds of the couple.
Finally relieved from the night.
He sat under the tree and muttered to himself:
What I love is a name after all.
Or memory. ”―
A kind of hard wound called following the local customs
In July, imagine those heats.
Imagine those creatures in the water.
Wild ducks are like disciplined maidens along a string.
The long line moved forward.
The water is like a hot stream, and it is as vast as smoke.
Flocks of migratory birds carry the original flavor of their homeland.
Fly. I'm a foreigner.
Carry with you a lot of unknown vices.
The mosquitoes and flies of Weng Weng are exuding.
The sound of disgust.
It's easy to touch the scene.
Maybe it's the weather, it's the degree of heat.
and a kind of hard wound called following the local customs.
Force a black duck.
Tears flowed
But times will get better.
The season always needs some genuine affection.
If you've cried, it's not enough.
Like a wild duck, give all the confessions back to the sky.
Author:Ye Xiaosong, born in 1964, screen name, Prometheus (fire thief), columnist of the Reading Sleep Poetry Society, and a good poet in poetry writing. Some of the poems are included in "Reading Sleep Poems: Spring Blossoms" and "Reading Sleep Poems: The Grass Grows and the Warbler Flies". The language of poetry is unique, the poetry is agile, and he is good at digging out the poetic soil and building the castle of poetry from the silhouette of life. Poetry has its own unique meaning and specialness, and has a certain degree of recognition.
Read the Sleep Poet Shooting.
Face the sea and look for the light with your black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "speaking for grassroots poets" as its mission and promoting the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, the spiritual pleasure of poetry, and the revelation of poetry to living life.