reduce the minutia and move to the future
tune into to truth and tune out of the rumors
neuter the tumors that give birth to intruders
refuse to be abused by maneuvers of rulers

we need to rise and strike up the fires
the time has arrived to slide with the vipers
biting like spiders with wiser desires
driving our fangs into the spines of the liars

With eyes of evergreen
And freckles of galaxies
You ******* undone
With heart of purity
You take my insecurities
And make me want to love
It was you who captured me
And gave me sympathy
You saved me from myself
You say you will never leave
And I promise the same of me
You rid me of my little hell

-Successfully Broken

There is no such thing
Only the state
In which its awareness is lagging

you
you're not a poet
and no matter how hard you try, you'll never be one
but what you are, is even better
you're a poem

everytime i look in your eyes
i see new lines, freshly written

when i touch your face
echo's of ancient words are heared deep inside my soul

i haven't made love to you yet, and i can't even imagine
the poetry i will feel that day

so even when you will never be a poet
you'll be the only poem i ever want to read

I have something systemic
That's not an emotion I know.
It's more than a feeling,
It's a metaphoric something,
Not literal, more figurative.
Empathy is close;
And it's certainly not sympathy,
That's too aristocratic and snobbish.
I could compare it to an older sister
Moving into her own bedroom;
Or an older brother vanishing
On the first day of school.
For example, I visited my friend, Oafy
In the nursing home.
He had his shoes on the wrong feet,
And he didn't care,
But I did. That sensational something
Is the gist of my systemic something.
It's human, probably universal,
Rational, not inane.
Mothers, I understand, sense it.
Fathers, being one, too.
Humanitarianism is a big part of it;
So is altruism,
But it's bigger than charity.
It's a connection with all the senses,
But real beyond cognition.
It's a field-tested faith,
But I don't know what to call it.

Poetry means nothing to me

and so it IS nothing

but a vice