Friends who write poetry enter modern poetry and everyone communicates

Curtain. Lean over and bow your head.

Avoid the withered petals of the flowers.

The beauty of this moment is overwhelming.

It's hard to bear this bleak and gorgeous gloom.

There was no familiar figure in the crowd passing by.

Crowded and lonely.

Haggard face, pale soul.

A sigh as he lifted the corners of his clothes.

I can't find the warmth of hope.

Who can make me forget this sorrow.

Pick up your dusty smile.

Look up at the sky with teary eyes.

The detached eyes were suffocating.

The chill hit and it was finally a little cold.

Sideways moaning in grief.

There was a gloom all around.

Weave into a thick fog.

Haunting and struggling lives.

I'll come too, hehe, I hope I don't laugh.

The bright moon rising in August, you are cold and arrogant, you enjoy the wealth and wealth in autumn, and you have boundless hope.

I remember that in the early winter, I never regretted refrigerating and boiling, and when the small flowers bloomed everywhere, I was lonely after all.

Self-effort should be timely, let go of the desire, the season does not wait for the small flowers to fall, and the hatred and hatred remain.

There is an opportunity to talk again. Same hobby, same sky.

In spring, the feelings of the world are open, and in summer, lovers are embracing each other.

In autumn, lovers rejoice and cry, and in winter, children are afraid to breathe.

Hehe, I'm sorry, changed the poem of the buddy on the first floor. And I want royalties, I don't!

Excuse me. I look at what you have written, these words are too wordy.

Don't be afraid to face what you write, although sometimes you feel that your writing is not good, it may become a treasure in the eyes of others.

Here's a poem I wrote:

In spring, there are flowers and everything blooming, and in summer, there is a strong affection.

In autumn, there are fallen leaves and bitter tears, and in winter, there is frost and fear.

Didn't you even say it above about your question?

Don't be afraid to face what you write, although sometimes you feel that your writing is not good, it may become a treasure in the eyes of others.

Your poems are all too easy to understand, have you ever seen a famous poet in a foreign country? : Plop The frog jumped into the water.

It's just this one that he also calls poetry, and poetry isn't something that everybody can say, something that you want to say from the heart, in simple sentences.

Friend. Night, inch by inch, inch by inch.

devouring everything in this world, but also swallowing my sleep.

I vaguely remember, friend, that year, in the late autumn of Moyo, on that day, you said goodbye to me.

You walk in front, I come behind.

On that day, the red leaves left the branches like a stream of water.

But I don't know, friend, you're going too.

Four seasons, spring and autumn rotation, three years, not long or short.

The leaves, budding in the spring, will leave the branches in the fall.

Friend, you, once in my spring, walked, but hand in hand with the fallen leaves.

I opened my mouth and stretched out my hand.

However, thousands of words are choked in the throat, words, even if you don't say it, the branches, have not kept the fallen leaves, the sedan chair.

It knows that he will eventually go, and you and I know it.

Friend, that road, I don't know, have you ever walked again.

I don't know if I can recognize your footprints.

Perhaps, the wind blew away.

That classroom, I don't know, is there in your memory.

I don't know if your memories appear the same person I used to be.