I was hoping that maybe we could talk...
Or that youd be willing to receive
My truth, in privlaged agony
& unkind lesiurley reprieve

a nuaunced  air of psychic assemblage,
As wordless paint- always says more
Like of the eyes, their silent language
Abstract Expressionism at its core.

You are worthy:
not for what you carry,  
but for how you rise  
when the weight is unseen.

You are worthy:
in the quiet moments,  
when no one claps,  
and still you choose kindness.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Not the voice that doubts,  
not the silence that stings,  
not the mirror on a hard day.

You are stitched from stories  
that survived the fire,  
braided from breath and belonging,  
woven with wonder.

You are worthy:
as you are,  
as you were,  
as you will be.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Let the poem remind you.  
Let the earth echo it back.  
Let love say it louder.

What would you like? Was the question I asked
To the person lying in what once was my past
Can it potentially, ever last?
I'll dictate instead of typing This fast

An easier way to communicate to
The thoughts and the Feelings that make up virtue
I'm saying this here for me and for you
though you've no idea, not even a clue
what exactly I'm looking at when my eyes pierce on through

Your face is guna tell me what ur mouth can't say
N I hope you figure your **** out someday.

Happy birthday- its what they'll say
With voices which typed words delay
Where on your behalf today, they'll wish
Simply for your happiness

A wish to me, is like the Horizon
An imaginary line of undefined potential,
Forever fading when approached.
With its endless opportunity preceding
the powerless thrill of pursuit-
Forever fading,
we approach.

When Happiness is fleeting
as all emotions are,
The golden light of  this April's dawn-
Not silhouetted, scars.

Oh how the saying makes me sick while excuses, there are not,
Decisions to decisions, word's weaponed from thought.
So, a new turn of phrase; is born within the dark;
words I whispered to myself, a lone,

                                              A Sky-cyphers Scribble-sailing mark.

For the first and only time,
Not of me but you
These writing's wordings weave a web,
of synthesized virtue.
To be spoken allowed to oneself,
read, written or thought,
Of each word that's now misused- their purposes forgot.
examined, explained, investigated my life
As if speech were the blade, written words are the knife.

all of the meaning and every moral, we tether to our mortal coil
Life and it's significance- of time, distilled in transience .

The concept of fate & of destiny, too
Both insinuate journey, the movement through
How, now, can our destinations insue
We'll come Home, its depths, are dreams of blue.


*between the church hymn
And under haiku
It is,
Ravled in deep bules

From the first awakening to the sighted's sleepless death-

We're bent under times unbearable weight, between these events two,

I wont lose something beneath heaven's breath, worse,

Than the reluctant, peculiar, perfection of you.