I'm made for heartbreak
I've been blessed with cuts and bruises
No lashes for my eyes to open them wide
To discover the culprit
The Hunter , the one who preys
Who loves to see me on the floor begging for more
I' was made to know I don't belong to them
Those hearless ******* who destroy me
Using my heart as a toy
That they play with the intention to throw away

Life begins to feel like a prison
Invisible bars of society and rules you can't trespass
Maybe death is freedom
Right now it all seems depressing
Work, health, love ,and stress
I'm so JOY-LESS
I remember the times when Simplicity ruled
I give you this , you give me that
There is no real human kind
You're not free to be who you wanna be
Just follow the trends and you'll see
How miserable you can be
In this world filled with greed.

My mind thought it was dead
for five long years
living a life under clouds of medication
raining blues on my forehead
I did not know what it meant
to be awake
I only knew what it meant
to not want to die
I look in the mirror and see surviving
as if survivor is my only worth
bleeding thick black lines
onto paper so thin
it disintegrates as I write
my bones are awed at the thought
that maybe it didn’t need to be this way
smoking lungs deciding whether to
keep putting out the fire
or let my body burn
burn with my own inspiration
love that buried itself in my ribcage
and made itself a prison
worried about the hurt that would
crush my hands to powder
like it did before I learned
how to silence my mind,
it is deciding whether to be broken
or swimming in my own head
learning to think again
against my body’s wishes
it’s being okay or creative
finding light
finding life
or finding nothing in return

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

I watched you water my petals
Soaking my roots with your love
But then the drought came
And you left me thirsty.

My petals wilting away
From your abandonment.
And I watched as my soul died
In the lonely drought.

I'm so cold, warm me up?

I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands,
bhuti

blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed-
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal

There will be time
When I'll put down my arms
Lay my armor aside
Embrace the warmth, and live.

But until then,
gears up.