The rings of the bells The hurdle of it all It may cause your downfall.
If you ehar a certain ring, Do not be scared to sing Because if they call back, and you're free, They might take you out of glee.
Do not fret, Yet it is all a bet Do not fret, The bet is done, yet All you can do to truly seal it all Is to do everything excluding the life And instead living in immense fright.
It truly is a beautiful form of art The beauty that never leaves since the start. The laughs, the joy, the love it brings And it is all sealed with a deadly ring.
It truly is a hard form of art. The struggle that always seems to stay in it's part. Yet all it needs from you Is the life of yours so blue So that they take what's truly left of you.
Ice skating is wonderful, it is so gracious. Yet the grace doesn't last, if it's so spontaneous. You may slip, you may fall, Cause an injury from it all. Then you're healed you get back up, And eventually, the cycle repeats And once again, you're down from your step-up.
Yet is it better if their definition deems sultry? The kind that burns and leaves you trying The kind that makes you want to dream, but for a lost cause Because what is poetry without those little flaws? Yet if a poem seems to give the effect of dying The effect that burns the soul thoroughly The effect that crashes your heart severely But with the passion it makes your sorrow Turn into beauty of the warmth of burrows Then maybe poetry is cruelly free And a poet, is known for nothing but expressing their heart truly.
