I am weightless in the breathlessness of my own soul;
where I wake up every part of myself – piece by piece.
Life is the length you live, until you die – measuring
it risk by risk.

My soul is amiss, where I aim my mark on giving
out good remarks. But I must admit, sometimes it’s
all just a miss.

Yes, I am this candle of love, burning fiercely in my heart.
But where I burn from its wick; my heart is fiercely wicked.
And I play out the cast of my feelings – but, why do I have
to act them out as an armed hand; protecting my very own
insecurities, held in a daily ***** cast?

And in all the beautiful things I can see, I quickly fish
for ideas. Afterwards, I cast my net to grab onto dreams –
still I need the fires of His love, for my soul can easily fall
asleep. For our beds are our testing graves, and after your
final resting place, where will you end up in the End of days?

Pages into dreams – as their stand painted in an enigma
of beauty; being the pencil drawn to you, La Gioconda
"The joyous woman"

As they call your smile a masterpiece; man tries to
piece together every fibre of what makes it so –
“Female power”

Still, I guess parts of your story hangs in the frame of
being an unfinished work – where parts of your soul
aren’t the parts that are fully whole. But the memory
of you holds a place in history.

Of where we met; under the tears of dripping paint,
as I’d share the dreams, I traced out on my notepad’s
pages – staring an hour’s end, knowing that even as
long as I could stare at your smile, we never actually
met.

Still, I have the picture of your smile, to retrace all
the memories in my head – oh the beauty of the
Mona Lisa smile; how it does in my head.

I’m seven steps away from Heaven, in a world where I’m a corner
away from the Devil – so if I give into these pressures, it means I'll
give myself into these earthly pleasures. But the world still gives
a toast to your efforts, as it calls you, "so toast," in your present.
As I've been around the mundane of numerous dead conversations,
decomposing in a grave. But only when there’s something on the
lines, does talk among fools hold a grave importance.

Still, bring me flowers as if it where my day, as I plan to be a letter
at the cemetery – with the wisdom I gained, to share. My whole life
would be these songs written as poems; trapped in my pen as a
snare; while the beating of heart’s passion plays on like a snare.

And there, where there are people who care for us; it's only in death
will we know those who were good at pretending their love for us.
And I’ll find those lovers, chained to each other like slaves – and I'll
give the sweetest dreams to the fearful bunch, whose beds act as their
trial runs to their graves.

Whereas we all live just to die someday, which will be one day –
yet we take this life day by day, making the most of them, like it
were your very last day; the day will eventually come. Still, what’s
to income for us, is what will become our action's outcome. Death
isn’t something you can run from, buy your way from, or delay any
longer for anyone – yet we must live life, remembering that His will
is always done.

Imagine, the whispers of love tainted on your lips – reading those
signs in your words; where your love is so desired, that once you
fell in love, it all descended upon the world. While man was made
from the dust of the ground; how quickly he sells himself so short;
just becoming dust that’s cheaply sold.

Oh, was it her, Wisdom; she knocked on his door, but nobody came,
from the raining despair of life, she came looking for warmth, as she
shivered in her overcoat. But you only gave her lip service, never
paying attention to her words, even as she handed you her quote.

Over the intercom’s speaker I could hear her call, “it’s me honey;
it’s me,” but I was a whelp who was more in love with the world.
“Let me in—I’m so cold,” still I chose the warmth of this world to
keep warm, but she’s a mistress that has no home. She roams the
streets to every man’s call – while wisdom is the sweetest kiss on
the lips, with a still glow.

And even though I didn’t accept her at the time, she still waited for
me to grow; to grow into her. She undressed herself, and took the
skin of my pen. Her beauty in my hand makes fools jealous of what
they couldn’t grasp then. As she’s the dividing rule, to separate the
boys from the men. I love her more now, better than I did then –
for she’s my lover, who stood as a constant friend.

An ode to Wisdom.

I’ve tasted the echoes of a flame; inhaling silhouettes of the night’s
smoke; wasting time under the clouds of downhill voices, speaking
low on my worth.Where I recall my mother’s voice as the sturdy
cane of discipline – as we read about disciples who were just
ordinary men; we were orderly raised, where being scolded a
third time about coming to bath at five, was just a part of our
ordinary days. My most trusted companions where the imaginary
friends I made up – who knew they'd get me in trouble, if I was
found talking to myself while I play.

And I don’t feel that old, but nostalgia has been resting on my soul;
the better parts of it, and also the worst – where I grew up with the
biggest fear around girls. Though part of that fear still remains, only
we changed the fear of girls, to a fear of falling in love with the
wrong girl. “But I love her though,” by that statement I'll know
I’ve definitely fallen underneath the floor.

I hardly questioned my flaws; until I grew a little order and started
to be so aware of them all – then I grew a little older, to soon realize
they’re all just a part of us all. And I don’t feel that old, even when
the wisdom I get isn’t always the same wisdom the youth can own –
still I hope their purpose is the one thing they can own.

I have to keep a piece of self-worth in my silver thoughts, interlaced
like a plait – even when I think up a few corny bars; I still see
myself as platinum. Signed here... a Platinum baby.

Teeth in a lace; tying up my smiles towards pleasurable faces –
I’m a bit tied for time, to be walking in someone else’s shoes.
While staring in the mirror, it feels like a person I had known
before. Waking up from a dream to the first breath after Sleep;
the cousin of Death

My tears have stained my bed, while I know all my resting fears –
and for the love you can afford, pay attention to a love mate you
meet; for we love spending more time buying into their dreams.
As I know the woman of my dreams isn’t the one I’ll find so
easily in all my sweetest dreams.

I stay awake most days, piecing together the most sensitive parts
of me – love me partly, but don’t invite me to love you more than
God – for Hell births the longest party, burning away all of those
lost souls.

As I assemble the fragments of my being; now whole—I embraced
solitude; in coupled fears. We coexist within the longing and craving
of love. We're so afraid of the possibility of never discovering it, yet
even more terrified of losing it all in a fleeting moment – we do long
to walk in other people’s shoes, of those who’ve figured how to tie
the knot; united in matrimony.

By the coldest depths of the sea -
soaring in my highs as a bird with no wings,
a cliff diver so afraid to jump; silent most of the time.

My greatest pride is in my eyes, for if I stare
at for you too long; we'll make it a worthwhile time
looks do ****; so staring at pretty face is suicide.

As life could be perfect, if you live without purpose
who would judge you if you hold no case to plea,
how complex wouldn't you be in this perplexity
For without purpose none are pressured to be -
seemingly so free, yet it's a freedom so cheap
But for the struggles in life, what purpose do
you have to shed your share of tears

Are you not free?

No, life isn't perfect, even as you make your way
to fulfil your purpose - but there's no great purchase
in doing nothing for yourself. Our struggle to live
a day as a pretty flower in an ugly world, is what
makes us a relatable bunch. Perhaps too sober in
facing troubles; momentary pleasures are so warm
while the tears afterwards are all so cold.