I'm not going to tell you about it
I won't tell you.
I'm just a poet.
Loved, hated.
In a world where there is no love and honey.
Such as grass and trees to spend spring.
Autumn is like the process by which things grow.
Frosted, with dew; Dripping with tears.
Touched by you, cared for by you.
But I'm not going to tell you.
My dear, I will never tell you.
I cry every night.
Hour, and won't let you know.
I love you every moment.
per minute. Not necessarily
You don't have to hide your melancholy.
No, it's always on the way home.
Tangled childhood curled dreams.
It really doesn't have to
There, it seems, there were.
You sleep with the moonlight all over the place.
There has been a chest that embraces ideals.
When your native accent.
Sandwiched by all over the world, how do I know.
What the years have given you is the vicissitudes of life.
Or innocent hope.
Like how can I say.
I love you, the earth is desolate.
Dervishes
Even if there is no love in life.
We still chose to survive.
The gods on the trees never eat away at the fireworks of the world.
They live a life of ingenuity.
Lonely old ascetic, you know.
I also love the coolness of the former side under the linden tree.
Did you know that there is light in the eyes of the blind?
Fantasy groped for hope out of the darkness.
Sleep, since you can't get rid of it.
The misery of life, since fate has been.
Knock out the potholes, since every day.
All have to wait for the sun to set.
It's been done day in and day out.
The world is so big that we can still bury it.
How much secrecy? And what pain.
We can't put it down gently.
Reflection
A tree reflects in the water.
In July, the sky fell.
It's like an adolescent child.
My heart is full of jumping and melancholy stars.
Through the tired, lazy branches.
The water ripples and sighs.
It was as if an old man suddenly remembered.
A nursery rhyme sung by his mother when she was young.
When the crow of pain wakes up from insomnia.
I saw myself drowning with yesterday's tree.
It flew away.
Leaving behind another miserable self.
Like my wandering heart ......
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.