Break the knuckles of the writers

who writes love is bliss,

when they become zombies

with drug of love.

Break there skulls who are drunk with pain,

and make us to feel so

when There hottest love has the coldest end.

enough poets,

with your jugglery of words,

you make love a mystery to folks,

You win many hearts but

you all are hypocrites

((listen to me now,

add a star mark * for all your poems in the end saying

these lines not applies for all but only to blind,drunkards and hypocrites

we are rationalists and engineers))