Why do I create poetry?
Why am I sitting in this bed/couch, typing poetry into this website?
What is the  purpose of this?
Am I lonely?
Am I expecting someone to praise me for my poetic abilities?
Am i searching for acceptance, acceptance in a community to people who don't know me?
Why in the outside world do I hide my poetics talents from people,
But become bold enough to post my poems for everyone to see?
Am I really that insecure?
Why do I keep checking on my email seeing how many people are commenting on my poetry?
About how many people are following me ?
About how many like my poems?
Why do I keep on going to different websites posting my poetry where it can get stolen?
Why?

Well, because I love poetry
And that's that.

Our bodies are borrowed
yes, it is not hard to comprehend
it's not a poetic metaphor
nor is it a intellectual endeavor

our bodies are borrowed...

it might seem strange at first
but then it starts to make sense
but its crazy

our bodies are borrowed...?

Hello, for your whole life you was borrowing something
your soul borrowed the body made from your mother
a mom whole also borrowed her body who sexually interacted with another person with a borrowed body
whose parents created them with borrowed bodies
all the way to the beginning

our bodies are borrowed....!!!????

that means our life is borrowed
our kids are borrowed
our happiness are borrowed
our darkness are borrowed
our ****** activities are borrowed
even our souls are borrowed

our bodies are borrowed??????

Now will you continue this borrowed reality or use your borrowed body to create a world?
a world that doesn't require a borrowed body?
a body of your own?

I take my keys and put it in my pocket.
Put my black jacket on and raggedy shoes
Put on my music and head out the door to the spring night air
“Finally” I said.” I'm free”
But I'm not of course. I'm trap, tied down to the ground leading me to suffocation.
The reins of my dog pulls tightly on my hands.
It cracks and cringes, it erodes in time.
But I still held on to the blue cotton chain.
People stared. Stared with hatred, remorse, disgust, disruption.
Their eyes popping out of their eye socket.
STOP WATCHING ME!!!!!!
But it is not as worst as the other snarling dogs.
They grind their teeth showing their black gums
But then nothing is more worst then the police officers
Their cars patrolling the streets like gangsters part of a drug industry.
But then I cross that bridge, that safe haven full of joy. Full of space, until the sun doesn't take it at least.
But it's okay as moonlight drowns me, renewing my soul.
The whisperings of the trees swaying in the wind.
The salty waters of the island
and that wonderful moist air of freshness.
It only survives for a split second however.
Just a second of hyper real reality.
Until the dullness of life suffocates me again.
The dogs ,the chain, the people. Everything comes back to me.
But it is okay.
That addictive moist air.
  
O how I desire that taste of moist air again....

When they look at me they see right pass me.

Yep, right pass me, right through the soul.

They see a ghost, a shadow.

Someone with mediocre tendencies.

or perhaps weirdness that cloats my physical body.

the mysteriousness of my personality choke them with fear and bewilderment.

only a few is able to encounter the lock door.

Yes, only a few is able to knock on the door with no ****.

Some are patient, waiting for it to open.

Others look at it with contempt and kick on it.

Some becomes frustrated and insane

Others celebrate it, being naive to the feeling of the door.

And everyday the door locks itself tightly.

17 bolts and locks

17 chains and plates

but no ****……

eventually the environment vitalize and degrades constantly.

a different environment each time

but the old door keeps on standing

waiting for it to be open……

Cry, cry all you want
I don’t want to see salty tears
burning through the mahogany table like droplet holes.
I don’t want your dry lips pressing against mines as they will crack,
your excuses for ripping my heart out with a silver spoon.
and definitely don’t want the necklace I gave you full of fleas.
I want you gone, gone from this castle!…………….
“Drip, drip, drip, drip”……
I stared hard out the window.
Is it my fault she had to be such a *.
Her dripping boots treading across
the moody landscape, a sign of failure.
Let her rot on the trenches of spears.
I died for you we, you stank w*e
I died, I died , I died for you!!!……
“Honey wake up”…
“oh my dear, I had a terrible nightmare”
” I saw you staring at the window and
thought you saw a ghost of some sort.
You were deathly pale"
Oh, was I?, It must have been my reflection……