Themes of time, regret, love, and mediation
matter little
in this world.

The poems we write
aren't aimed to make us famous
or even
known.

It's the mapping of the mind
through the expression of words
and the knowing
that I can write anything
I feel
and get away with it.

I am the diety
of a self-proclaimed
thought
charged and released
in the form
of a
poem.

So write on!
Even in vain
if the direction of your
goals
is to become some
indication of someone
we should all respect
and know
for his or her
works.

It is
what
it is.
Mostly.

There are a few
that will be recognized
and who knows
why?

We're all poets.
What makes someone
else's work
more meaningful?

I've been told
by people I know
that it's all about
the people
you
know.

English is the worst
Put words here
Slap letters there
Be aware of poetic devices
Look at themes
Topics
Points
Write an essay
Write a poem
Write a summary
All the same
Old
Boring
Stuff
Good thing lunch is
Next

Dear world, this is a message from me to you;
I'm sure you're not listening
so I'll be as long as I want to.

I've lived for what feels like a long time,
The entirety of what you know
is always a long time.
I've survived things which I couldn't have thought,
And found answers to what
I had never sought.
That cold fire burnt a factory floor,
Where the first revelation
was unlike any before.
I had planned for so long,
Dreampt of Columbine
like some forgotten song.
Sweet melodies yet unheard from lost dreams,
They flitted between a waking torrent
of lifeless themes
Inhuman disconnection.
It was a dull nightmare,
In which I could not recognize
my numbing despair.
It's alright though,
I killed it so long ago.

I'm not really sure what I had to say,
I guess this is just,
Bye and stuff.

But would you Judge the Matter by a Horn
Since they Fail to Meet your Revels, I suppose?
Pasty Rebels do indeed cause such Scorn
Yet Blame them Not for the Themes they Propose
Hence their Names. And just as Proud their Support
Though Blind Praises your Base Human refuse
To Feed the Owls; With Worms their Claws report
Sieve the Trendie and Nottie by your Cue
Our Business, it's not. So banked by your Time
As Circles and Lines define your Scripture
Thinking - how prolonged such Kited Define
To stomp the Sinner yet save his Feature?
Do I speak with Gods? Or Titans less base
Prior to Digress just Salted your Face.

As your Laughter burst Tears of Sigh Relief
Him having left your Morning Heart deserved
Purse his Regret; Your Shining Light revealed
And Transform to Prime Victory reserved
This is your Day. Which Days will follow Print
And more would your Candles stoke Blessings a-light
To Follow your Waves; Which Waves define your Mint
And make Honoured Suitors open for your Sight
By this - Friend - invest such Time for your Hour
Though Connected Bonds take much to un-tangle
That - in due Sincere - place Wishes from a-far
Only for your Joy which God will Handle.
And your Heart - the Resevoir - fills Great Sense
Share your Themes to the World; And all in due hence.

Show me your empty orchestra.

Of halls and walls,
the silent stalls.
Which separate and manipulate.
The magic. With the tragic.

Show me your tortured dreams
of all you deem, those sacred themes.
Of hate, of love.
Of the many worlds you write thereof.

Show me.
Make me salivate.
Over this empty space,
Of which you shall never, ever deface.

DB Jirel Ravi When things go wrong
When flat goes a song
Cries someone's heart
Living in the next part
Of the beautiful world
O, mighty God behold
Music tunes die leaving
It's melodious feeling
And nobody dare to sing
And no prayer bells ring.

My friend Rosaline, poets are made for heart. Yes, to read hearts, to hurt hearts, to heal hearts and to kill hearts. But blessed are we who know the true heart of God and feel the way He feels. Forget the past and pivot on the themes of life ahead you.
Warmest regards,
DB

I don’t want to write poems my dear,
I don’t want to write poems,

For its only you that flows in all of my themes
Of love, longing and waking dreams.

I don’t want to write poems my dear,
I don’t want to write poems.

For I fear my love be captured in words,
And may you know how much.

I don’t want to write poems my dear,
I don’t want to write poems.