This obsolete word- love;
in its pathetic love passions; - a lover’s promise
to do better– is a sorrow for a morrow. Digging in
your heart to express jealous feelings- love has just caved
in; loving one from the very pits of their own darkness.
Love is beauty, but also promises probable harshness.

In the letter ‘L’-
is longing, but also many let downs.
‘O’ – openness to broad communication; also the
opportunity to opposing standards. The rest of the letters
are blurred- as to why you won’t see me express them well.

Of cos, one should be sentimental;
still the mental response of love- gives tears;
of a heart building up a great sentinel…

an old piece of paper;- rustic with words of verses to a
beautiful beginning with an awful end— a jealous pen,
towards poems that boldly write stanzas of love- starved,
drained, alone in the silence of a love life, a heart not to
beat for love- only to read about it again and again.

i am; a plain piece of paper- words, actions, desires…
all things searching, for a true love that only comes
much later. live a day, sleep over a dawn of love, and
departure a night crying about it, alone.

There’s a charming night; her air seductive,
her beauty blinding- she strives through pain; writes a
story with a dried-out pen; writing a poem with no lines.

She is the night; her skin is brown sugar, her eyes are
filled with black galloping horses, that defies any oblivion,
her lips are red as the blushing passion of youthfulness.

Her wrongs in my eyes are a pale memory;
she is a penny with its head and tail- whichever side she
falls on, her worth affords all of my attention.

Tonight, her touch is like a paintbrush on my skin;- she
tries to paint a new moon- reflecting her smile’s shine;
she’s a candle that pierces at the darkness, and light starts to
bleed out, filling the room with an echo of, ‘her’ and only ‘her.’

She’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal;
she’s a fatal misery- full of forgetfulness; the memory
of her I try to make stay. To live with her is a pain, without
her is a shame;- she’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal
—sadly, she is only, and remains just a dream.

We’ll bury more of the dead; -  
rather than burying the problem  
that caused their death,  

We prefer not to bury the hatchet;  
instead raise them up in arms—
yelling, “let’s all go to war”

Bent butterfly wings, a tepid moment;- waiting, craving,
as the yearning burns for the poet who lit a joint.
Burning so brightly was a passion, it burnt all night—
as like a taste of words, so forgotten in the lips of those
that I had kissed long before.

Still, it’s as dead as the scent of old gravestones- in
the blood of their veins, that feels like the suicidal
resting in pain. For I had buried my heart in a place,
-since life points out moments of feeling worthless,
my pen becomes pointless; - This poet is like a loner,
writing only for himself, like warmish water- that you
can only bare for a moment. Alas, I don’t deserve to be
called a poet; for right now that poet feels so hopeless.

               I can’t soar any higher; my wings are bent.

There is the time when life flourishes;-
and only but a second when it all vanishes
A winter loveless; makes itself cold – needless,
airless, so emotionless- for is the state of the heart
after sudden loss.

The loss of someone, the loss of love,
the loss of dreams, the loss of time, the loss of faith,
and tragically the loss of hope; - that loveless winter
embraces your mind in a heart’s grief.

You seem afraid, so afraid to break the silence;
still, you can hear your bones break in despair –
and oh despair, “you have choked me in my heart,
banished me - I feel your hand squeezing my trivial
heart made of a speck; sometimes it’s crystal or metal,
nonetheless, it all will break.”

Though suddenly, I snap awake - perhaps it was
just all a dream; - a fierce winter to recall.
It was more, for the somebody taking everything I love,
were my own hands, around the throat of everything
I held dear- all I thought I had lost.