Definitely, there are backgrounds ready to either cover your picture or to reveal your picture.
Life's best live in its slow motion.

~Mikelson

I enter this poem with one hand,
gripping the towel against the white board.
My feet fight balance, teetering on fulcrum,
my heart absorbs the meaning like a fragrance.

Do not mind what a poet tells you,
it is an ellipsis, find the missing truth.
The title of an elder is not an umbrella
to shield a child's head from life's heavy rain.

When the storm comes, the child's head becomes
as empty as the facade of a hollow title.
Do not deceive when tomorrow's dawn foretells
the fate that awaits, like a burning forest's spell.

In that inferno, the bandits of deceit
are consumed by the flames, their power defeated.
Nothing lasts forever, for the world itself
is a fragile paperclip, destined to be folded into nothingness.

~Mikelson

The light piercing the window peregrinates through my shadowy memories. It's hazy. My head pounds like a festive drum. A fleeting memory flashes, an anachronism that's quixotic. I try to use complex language to mask my shame, ashamed as I am of my limerence for my blood sister. Yesterday, I crushed her desires, silencing them amidst the soothing susurrus of the trees, a secret pose, covert and hidden. Now, the ebulient joy of yesterday has given way to her stained blood beside me, her nape clutching the bedsheets as she snores. That's why I know I am destined to fail.

~Mikelson

Nothing can **** well enough than a gradual death, a slow suicide. Internationally, it steals your breathe with a precise increase of choke but you still enjoy the little escape of the air from the plant to your lung.

Suicide is not suitable to be fast, quick and instant. It's a clog, constant deep-throw of ******* into the mouth of a flowing water. That's suicide.

~Mikelson

Nothing
works
better
than a sole that breaks silence,
then
comes
the
patter patter of rain
that
breaks
the
sweltering
air.

~Mikelson

Nobody
       buys
      a
cricket's sigh.
But
the night
      cares,
playing
        its
symphony on the platform.

~Mikelson

Beley bee is blue and tomato
is tiles red,
Lapped at the leaves on the
stem that carries them ahead.
Tomato trips the stem, and
the bee ***** in fright,
As she lands in the air, with
a gentle, floating flight.
With a soft "foom" she stretches,
her wings a blur of blue,
A tiny, whimsical moment,
suspended, pure and true.

All is blue like array.
Deck in gloom if you pray and play.
Life's a playful ground of
choice and a choice to choose.

Mikelson

Inks coils hard.
Paint a brush
with sparks. Flows
down a path of art,
a din of an act.

~ Mikelson

chain-knees
sullied
debut of
tie
&
episodes. A
secret
trill,
like an
eagle's evil cry, lacerates the die-hard spirit of death and hardship.

~MIKELSON

I want my voice

- to steal fright and darkness and restore it with hope & freedom
- to rumble emotion into evanescence of transformation
- to answer your imbalance heart
- to question your wrong notion and naturally free you from your past.
-
I am not Jesus, but my words can be converted as:
Still as water,
soothing as cold water,
Real as truth,
Direct as straightline.

Poetry is an art with no specific purpose of  act.
But it pays taxes of emotion.

~Mikelson

On steep plains, it fades like weight
Compressed beneath crowdy privilege
Plank-wood biscuits crumble, fettered for ants
Dusty fingers bury colors, vibrant life

But the crowdy privileged glance through
The compressed, like a stolen breath of rest
Oblivious to the struggles, the weight
Of poverty's crushing, suffocating fate.

© Mikelson

In my poem, I'll grasp the handlebar with sweat-drenched palms
& unfocused eyeballs as they blur through the evening spectacle.
I'll clench death at the knot of my fingers,
& the grease oozing out from me like life itself.

The door creaks covertly, as I focus on the evening grey,
my face sliding into the shadows, unmetered and unseen.
No solace can be found at this moment,
neither can Papa's gentle smile cradle me in hope.

I'll climb onto the bridge rail, watching as people
are sliced into silence, emptied onto the deserted bridge road.
The water's blackness beckons me,
and I'll answer with my legs, climbing,
assisted by some unseen force.

I'll dissolve this fleeting hope and sink into that blackness,
where consciousness dissolves into nothingness.

~Mikelson

In this chapter, I'll be writing a rather pleasing storylines. The pages are rough, old, dusty & sandined with the weather's breathe. Exactly my point.

I've watched and also learned that linguists seem to soar in language, and freely express themselves in the tongue of the Language they speak. But, good poem outweight a sane course. It's indescribable express where every words have their own thought to act and rhymes as figures in the speech.

I'll say a man whose words slur like nocturnal isn't perfect, and imperfection is a beauty rare. Good poem is a world apart, like consciousness morphing into unconconsness unconditionally. Yes! Good poem breaks the law. It's outrageous to say that this poem can match your heart like a sorcery of visual, and tactile of kinematicism echoing auditory patterns of gesticulation.

Good poem is alive, a merlin, a warlord that fight against injustice with intoxicating and provoking characters coming alive.

As I'd say as a new regent,
'good poem **** the bad ones'

Write a good poem, I'll like to read some a savor.

Mikelson