Mental health poems are shorter.

"That's not my paradise"-Yi Mingzhu That's not my paradise. If there is no affair there, heaven is not where I yearn. I yearn for the wind-I yearn for the wings of Dapeng. Dapeng swept the clouds for nine days under the wind, and went to Wan Li Road. I long for flowers, and I long for the graves of soldiers. Among the flowers in front of the tomb of the warrior, there is the strange fragrance of the chivalrous man. I long for snow-I long for cold places. Snowflakes falling in the cold bring endless spring. I long for the moon-I long for a girl's dream. The moon hanging on the edge of a girl's dream is an innocent peep of the mind. However, I don't yearn for heaven. If there is no affair there, heaven is not where I yearn. Farewell to Cambridge-Xu Zhimo left me gently, just as I came gently; I waved my hand gently and bid farewell to the clouds in the western sky. The golden willow by the river is the beautiful shadow of the bride in the sunset, rippling in my heart. Green grass on the soft mud, oily, swaying at the bottom of the water; In the gentle waves of He Kanghe River, I would like to be a pool under the shade of aquatic plants, not a clear spring, but a rainbow in the sky broken among floating algae, precipitating a rainbow-like dream. Looking for dreams? Supporting a long pole, wandering to a greener place on the grass, loading a boat with starlight, singing in the splendor of starlight, but I can't sing, just a farewell flute quietly; Summer insects are also silent for me, silence is Cambridge tonight! I left quietly, just as I came quietly; I waved my sleeve without taking away a cloud. Love Life Wang Guozhen, I don't think about whether I can succeed. Since I have chosen a distant place, I only care about hardships and hardships. I don't think about whether I can win love. Since you love roses, tell your heart bravely. I don't think about whether there will be cold wind and rain behind me. Since the goal is the horizon, I can only leave the world a shadow. I don't think about whether the future is flat or muddy. As long as I love everything in my life, as I expected, I believe in the future. When cobwebs mercilessly sealed my stove to ashes, I sighed poverty. I still stubbornly spread the ashes of disappointment and wrote with beautiful snowflakes: I believe in the future. When my purple grapes turn into dewdrops in late autumn, and when my flowers are nestled in other people's feelings, I still stubbornly write on the desolate land with frosty vines: I believe that in the future, I will point my finger to the sky. I want to hold the sun in my palm, use the sea swaying in the morning light, and write with a warm and beautiful pen with a child's pen: I believe in the future. I firmly believe in the future because I believe in the vision of people in the future. She has eyelashes to push away the dust of history, and she has pupils to see through the chapters of the years. No matter people's melancholy about our rotten meat or the pain of failure, they are all moving tears. Deep sympathy is still a contemptuous smile and bitter ridicule. I firmly believe that people will give warm, objective and fair comments on the countless explorations, lost ways, failures and successes of our spine. Yes, I am anxiously waiting for their evaluation friends. Believe in the future, indomitable efforts, young people who overcome death, the future and love life. "Lightning across your fingertips"-onion lightning across your fingertips, everything above is: shock and shock, impulse and hunger, complete or messy desire. You simply say that this is the only unobstructed path in the jungle. This is a stream, nourishing your hidden poetry. This is the deep grass, let the night burn and let you burn! Time and time again, where is your voice? Where's your expression? Where is the hard mast behind the tide? Where are the banks and rivers you guide? Where is the valley where I live after the storm! Lightning flashed through your fingertips, and I felt the smell of wet land. A drop of rain followed by a drop of rain, one after another, alive and warm, all yours! You said to me: the cracks in the dry mountain will also be bloodshot. That night, I didn't know how to turn those crazy words into poems. I only remember at that moment that I was an unstoppable, living, shouting rock!