....
Stream takes possession of the land
Made wetlands
There are plenty of fish
Meet your protein needs

Clouds are playing in the sky
The dark and the shadows are dissolved in water
You drink
To quench thirst

Yet you have an existence
With a Continuous form
He who cast the shadow on the ground
Where love and hope locked in a home
Binds within a loop with Only a God

Words which are uttered
Of course diluted within air
Has written in the book of divine
Many do not understand while they read

See a beautiful garden
They are more steadfast
And that Red Rose is for yours
I have seen a lot of values to be gloomy
Then they lost

I have seen so far
Wandering Star to Star
Again in the Fog, tried to recognize
She lost!

Ah! How come all!
Alas! How Everything lost in the time
From Empty
Or Nothing
As if an Existence of Non-Existence!  

When Silence come down
Dark touches the death role
Nothing Exist without the Spiritual Soul
From Lost to Found
Everything Answering Nothing!

But where is the balance
You will get back everything
One day!
......

We fight,
With such might,
We lose sight,
Of the light.
Day turns to night,
Drowning in plight,
As hearts fill with spite.
Anger to ignite,
Flames to new height.
The fire burns bright.
All this despite,
Trying to do right....

So give up this fight.
Use knowledge not might.
Give blind back their sight.
Share all inner light,
To take back the night.
Humble in plight,
In spite of one's spite.
Peace will ignite.
Raise all to new height.
Thoughtful minds will be bright.
All this despite,
Admitting we're wrong.

The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.

I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner.  The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ******. The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.

A literate piece of poetic license,

The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.

The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.  
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under  
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.

I bought myself a gun today.
I’ll give you a moment to process the mental paper work.
Is he serious?
Is this guy for real?
Is this a metaphor? Is it loaded?  

Are these questions
you might ask?
Isn’t this supposed to be a poem?

I said I bought myself a gun today.
Do you feel better?
Safer?
Do I
seem more dangerous?
Are my words more weighted now--
with violence?
with virility?
with *******?
Are you looking at my crotch
for an extra bulge?
How do you feel
about me now
knowing that I’m packing?

I bought myself a gun today,
And just like that
I’m a gangsta upholding the second amendment.
I’m a citizen of the constitution
holding up my right
to bear arms,
and raise my hand in a fist--
a fist, that’s gripped in tension
a fist that’s an extension
           of man and invention
           and I really should mention
          I can blow your ******* head off
          without the slightest intention.

I bought myself a gun today,
Are you scared:
that I don’t know how to use it?
That it might want to use me?
That I might become
overwrought with emotions,
and respond to an argument
“Arnold” style with, an,
   “I’ll be back?”--
that I might settle things
once and for all
with my noisy neighbor
in a language he might finally understand?
Are you scared?

I bought myself a gun today.
Does that make you worry?
You know what the statistics say,
That I have a better chance of shooting
myself,
than some intruder,
or mugger, or ******
or therapist even.
Are you worried about my self-destruction?
that I might I might accidentally
have an
accident?
Or, maybe, you may think,
that it might be on purpose?
that I might be singing
the, “Barrel-in-the-mouth blues?”--
not just fantasizing
about ‘em,
but singing ‘em with a with my mouth wide open,
and feeling them for real for real:
feeling the cold steel ‘cross
my tongue,
choking
on the taste of cordite,
really singing, “I can’t breathe,”
and how much
this ***** and having
the means to put and end to it all--
Are you worried about that?
If you are
then don’t,
‘cause I’m not thinking about that at all.

I bought myself a gun today.
Wouldn’t it be great
if we all could say:

I bought myself a gun today.

my heart, is contaminated
the person handling it
                 isn't wearing any gloves
their fingertips press on my ventricles
their prints are ingrained as my
breathing
is restrained
Exposed to the sharpest smoke
inhaling the most addicting poison
my vessels gradually drained
                    of blood, of purity
my heart will never be retained