I feel so alone in a world that loves to **** itself,
As I need a gun, to truly feel like I belong;- filling
Up its cold chamber holes, in this revolving world
Six monumental shots, ready to **** myself…

Bullet 1: the war on drugs, is just a war with ourselves

Bullet 2: the war for land, is just a war with the world

Bullet 3: the war for peace, is a war in which death
   will only be the truest peace we’ll know

Bullet 4: the war for survival, is a war of stealing
   and killing, for that desperate dollar

Bullet 5: the war of the flesh, is a war between sanctifying
   the temple, or satisfying myself in lust’s power

Bullet 6: the war of identity, is a war of fighting against
   all the alleged titles- in order to find my true self

Blaring sun
pieces of skin left in the grass
-an aggressive game of soccer

I value the lips to a modest dream
The fresh lipstick – outlining one’s imagination
In soft brush strokes; as the dreams of my child
Are quite distant nowadays, still silhouettes to a recent age
The metaphysical footprints of walking in faith, the path
It’s… so narrow on the trail of yellow grass; the sun is on
My back, like a long-legged shadow in this urban darkness

Questions bring up less of their answers- my life a riddled
Experience on a dusty path, where manure litters the street,
Pretending the smell is all so vague- but those **** flies!

I am alone, patrolling the ideas of one’s calling, beneath a
Crescent moon – from youthful screams, too loud to hear
The purpose to all my chaotic dreams: perhaps now,
I’m finally awake in the world, to see what it all means?

I rest in self-misery, as the pride of a mirror - to only see
It as I alone, suffering through these trials. My successes are
Mere private congratulations; pats on the back, aspirations relying
On the weight of the estimation theory. As are my days: random
Components, wholly in the degree of alteration

Days alternate between good or bad; often the latter- a newer
Taste of bitterness, to an unreasonable resentment; a sad struggle
Against the Diarrhoea of Complaints- for yes indeed, life can be
So full of ****, and almost in that same mirror, you sadly see
The very crap you’re forced to be seated in,- daily

As a man is the master in his own fantasies; to have dreams
In which they live as gods- their truths all taking a deformed shape
The shape of life being abstract; as what hurt you today, becomes
The foundation to build tomorrow’s strength. So don’t give into
What pain rests on your plate- feeding into its lies; as where there is
One’s fate, lies the fuel of faith. So ask yourself; where on that tank’s
Needle, does your faith tend to want to sit on

Coded messages, inscribed by the scars on my skin
Aspects of a secluded heart; as the line of tears, maps
Out the journey to a long sense of finding due healing

As the border between maturity and old youth, in a new attire;
Once the public uniform of coming in your, “Sunday best,”
Disguising all the vile of yourself- as we fashion ourselves to
Look like the most likable person; the scrap pieces of dripping water
From prior baptisms- as some of the sovereign believers are uncouth
To their God, wearing the many false skins, hunted in wickedness-
Their very own diplomacy of delighted barbarism  

Separate all of your self-gratifying creeds, and agreed to
Worship in love, pray together; coming as you are- as we are
All knitted together by familiar troubles, hurts, griefs, uproars-
To raise our voices, bringing life to this new body.

Lost in sombre details, of what really hangs around morals
-Crucifix, hanging around a sinner’s neck; so choked up
While the devil speaks on my livelihood with his demons
Parading as unwanted guests; foundations of personal griefs
I am unguarded; not well versed in a couple scripture verses

Versions of my weekly self- a relaxed stance, trying to have
Faith in a life of ease. Setting aside everything else, in the
Way of being by my bedside- faithfully praying on my knees

Still if my faith is loosely based on modern people’s commitment
To their faith and integrity, I might as well be faithless as them all-  
Seated in a church; behind on my many debts, sitting at the back
Listening to the loud laughs of the greatest hypocrites,
The usual Sunday gossip, sounding clearer than a church bell
Leaders who burnt me, quick to preach how I might go to Hell

As a failed sense of wholesome community in communal
Around church clicks of skin colour, for Sunday’s different cults
In what my conscious tries to say is a domicile sanctuary:
I’m a bit reluctant to fully agree with my own self

Staring at this phone;-
Still waiting for the courage in myself to call
Your longing voice reflecting in my heart, like an echo
Clearly when I’m alone; swallowing the guitar strings
To play a soft melody in every one of my spoken words

But every time the phone’s waiting sound
Rings in my ear, every reason soon departs; I hang up
The phone before it even connects- feeling we’re no longer
As connected, as we used to be before;

So please, please save yourself, time, worth and words,
By all means, not feeling regretful to pick up the phone…

How the world hoards to see us: a collective
Of compulsive opinions, so prevalent in their hearts
Amid the prettiness sleeping awkwardly in your eyes
You’re so pretty in my eyes- I just wish you could
See what I see, but you’re so blinded by the
Glass splinters in your eyes, remaining something of
A child, still finding themselves- eternally lost

Styrofoam around my heart; a cardboard box around it,
To pack away memories of love. Crustacean lips, for every after
Taste of kissing; once of fishing for the one- that illusive catch
Still with the selfish desire to claim someone as my own, alone-
A greed like cigarettes staining fingers; crying only to myself
But never counting those tears in the broken mirror, of a bathroom

As this hubris of a man, is quite humorous;- truly starved of direction;
Yielded in such a dishonest method. A chance of, “shooting your shot,”
A posing act of perhaps creating your own weapon to **** yourself
Parlour tricks, for the conformality of society- a human preference
At this point. These unspoken rules, carefully set down: find someone,
Get married, do your purpose to multiply, work diligently to maintain
Appearance/experience memories together; as from finding love as
One being single, to leave those you loved mournfully single;
As only those set apart, ironically get to die together. Oh, how
Wonderful would such a pension to love be- but not often given freely.

Acrimonious ******; oh, to such a wanted piece of thought, falling carelessly as a leaf blown in a sceptical kind of winds, and with their goal of rattling me. The present fortunes present themselves as a mystery unsolved, the many spasms in a day, constricted by the extravagance of wanting to be heard; but the audience is so uninvolved

As I sometimes misplace my identity in my own words- as when I misplace worries into the formula of my concerns. The lessor faith in words, frames on the highest platform; in the endless echoes of a writer’s afterlife- where their once idolized muses, are blessed enough to be seen as something appreciated as gods- a Poetic pantheon

Creativity is like two gloved hands, that choke out the reader’s eyes,
suffocating them to see new found knowledge, in the loss of consciousness. As the stage is set; upon the tears of the world, being the opening curtains to such an encore performance; an audience made up of eyes hungry for more. The author’s responsibility to provide to them all,
a due course of sustainable food for thought. As the world feeds the writer the vilest of things, to in turn create something ameliorates in place of it.

There’s something so sinister about being lost inside of yourself;-
I apply Lip Ice before I fall asleep, just in case I have to experience
That cold kiss with Death. But that’s one being, being less than
generous to oneself, and giving out a lot of degenerate excuses
Of not doing so well. Rambling picaresque; engulfed by a hardened
sense; feeding well into my own insecurities, made from haphazard
ingredients- as a soul that tastes like concluded gumbo

Still, I ate a full plate; possessing a ruthless taste; an illegitimate
descendant of experience- that ******* is tapping, watered down
By the chit and chatter of rain; a totem of pain, spoken in haste,
As my lips are a cigarette ember, kissing while heat reveals itself,
As a tiny echoed spark, in a pool full of fresh gasoline

I only hear the sound of peace, in a snoring dream, ha, I hardly
do try to breathe out of my nose. From not being altogether; are we
Really all together- who really knows? But only the dead, who truly
Get to see the entire world, as souls that rise, or of course those who fall
As its truly so sinister living as beings, in this world’s being.

By my life’s imposing conclusion;-
My poetry will all be an additional storyline
It’s words remembered; my memory but forgotten
Surely the beginning of someone else’s inspiration
-Of course, in the middle of their new found saga
  
     And by that, I shall be content.

While I was passaging around;-
In an acquainted car, deprived of any hint of tints
My soul felt stuck inside that glass box;
Clear as a lucid bright day, to see how fragile I am

The glass in itself;- was reflective, so picturized
Boldly showing all the ugliness written out,
By the milage in my eyes.

I once met a man made out of steel;- but he was too afraid
To disclose all the hearts he stole, instead pointing out
All the love he had bought, as one constantly waiting for
What’s in store. The wise con artist selling out dreams
Only to lonely fools, who buy into flightless ideas-
Such tall ideas, with the promise of giving them wings

And to those he came to meet;- his very eyes carved up
Their bodies, to offer as fresh sushi; a bloodlust fishman,
Holding a charm with such impeccable practice
He spoke love’s language, with words sharp as knives
Cutting all costs, to make any love feel exorbitantly priced;

Alas I present myself to you- the author of such dreams
I am a halibut; playacting to have tough flesh underneath,
Drowning in the endless submerging feeling, of love
Swimming an entire life; sinking deeper by a heart of steel,
Still, anything that must breathe, must certainly bleed.

As when I bought a taste of love, it indeed
Tasted like my very own blood!

I bought myself;-
A single cigarette to share with my ex

Being as smoked out, choked up;
And in between coughing throughout
A prayer to God, I'm still not
Addicted to them.

Human nature: fault of our demise, ideas of peace we genocide;
Premediated suicide, as are the thoughts of killing myself for
The livelihood of someone younger living out their dreams

Peace isn’t cried out for, until the cries of war unhurriedly die out
To love one another, is to have something we all hate together
A hate so hot to hold onto, it could boil an egg in my hand
While the bags of my eyes carry a lot- in their sagging clouds
Before rain; tears in the eyes of man showing no mercy

Governments neglect you, hiring a river in the way of
Drowning sailors; strict kings, ruling over a collapsing sea
Men believing fortunes live with them, while moving their tents
In a desert’s empty heart, scorpions join in to sting your naked feet
Ruling the world; in the freshly turned soil- the Sweat of Humanity
Still man themselves, are as divided as that soil meeting its erosion
Mothers feet are wet, dripping prayers, crying for their lost sons
Fathers hide in secret places, to mourn over their widowed daughters

What is the idea of what they call, “peace,” while guns are the
Answer to their questions; as the devil quietly pulls the triggers
Our blood shouts out, slicked across the streets- crying for peace
But man takes it as an offence, uttered from a child’s lips.

Peace is irrelevant, rhetorical, paradoxical,
But when it comes to the griefs of war, peace is inevitable.

A wave of tears gradually carries away the tides of night
Alongside the river that weeps in its current plight
Unheard songs play, to the dead man who loves to sing
A dead silent night, for two lovers to bury the hatchet
In the tomb of being dead asleep in their shared beds-
Waiting for what falsehoods all sweet dreams bring

As the rhyme for a kiss is hiss; the cobra that loudly speaks,
She purrs and catwalks the runway- while her love is expensive
But we pay for it all, as the clock writes out a free verse

Filling poems to the taste of love, for the apple of my eye
A taste so bitter;- with a snake inside that bit my tongue
In a sole of time, the heart breaks- as roses tend to be forgotten
And unfortunately, the apple to my love had gone rotten.

I know the guiltiness of a dusty Bible
Brown specks slipping off my *******
Diminishing into my morning coffee,
To make the blend taste a whole lot bitter

Empty sentiments; too deep to be openly cast-off,
Once of someone who had the heart to their devotion
Nowadays it had proved heartless;- so fruitless:

Still a tree is judged by its fruits.

Material lips; sewing on a seamless smile;
A shrouded piece of wool- for one wearing
The jersey of youth, as time slowly pulls at the thread
While I lock away my shadow of the writhing darkness,
Trailing behind me in the day; as I once tried speaking
To my void, but the emptiness obeyed not a single word

A tap tap at my window- the eyes to a soul, painted wholly
In the colours of divorce; as the separation of dreams
From one’s imagination. All, all was so dark; slandered
By such a terrorizing world- until I opened to let him in;
As a child with a curious thought, soon questioning, and
To study- for my lips to utter:

I cannot live out this life,
Without letting You, O Lord in.

Tears of a bleeding knife; spoken promises from silent lips;
The language of one swaying a conversation- like their hips

I have been a victim of defeat, while snuffing up my tears;
Alongside the skeletons parading around in my closet
As a bone to pick with love, while picking up roses
Traveling through the thick of things as two lovers
Both stealing hearts- and being thick as thieves

As a moon spotlights over misery- wretchedness still,
Still under the sun we must celebrate in amnesia
Of what has passed- our past fades in time;
As its ticking clock of regret, is no longer mine

A breeze of promise echoes- searching for change
The very chances that elude the sage geckos
As we march towards another battle ground
I smile as a promise of fighting for better
Neither as a man who wears a frown

             I look above for hope’s song

Earthly possessions, earthly possessions;
At most they’re all of my greatest confessions

As the mask I so love to wear over my face
Is a mask made out of chameleon skins-
It grants me a shrewd changing appearance,
Camouflaging myself, to fit in with the crowd.

This pain I speak of, it all comes in spasms
My walls crumble on themselves- gripping,
Tightening, constricting and then discharging

Oh how this life once filled me with pleasure,
A rush of excitement towards coming days
Touching the most sensitive parts of me
A pleasant pleasure of riding the little waves
In coupled desire and hunger, a peaceful
Ecstasy to my Divine

Now it has slowed down on itself
Accelerating on top of my angsts
For what was once the idyllic tingles in my toes;
Is now a feeling of anxiousness-
I have such cold feet

A pain of pleasuring in the company of pain
This is my self-inflicting prison
And its escape is maiden to me- a ******
In the penitentiary of this world’s *******

Why do I allow this world to leave holes in me?

I smelt their blood like
A cloud of ash in the air;
Dreadfully trying to hide their faces
With a pale mask- a thinly made veil,
To urgently curtain over their enigmas

Still, I could see straight through them all;
And the sight of them charred my eyes,
Leaving my mind in an ashtray-
As by tiny little spurs; a question
Of passion was ignited:

If I could ever be a voice to these people-
A people who themselves were so lost
My words to them are yet to be found;

Oh, how to find that which is lost…
Is to understand the pain parallel to such
A terrible grief in itself…
I must lose something myself.

I cried these dirges brashly,
After these long nights
While my skin cracks;
Irrigating it with my dry tears
By the desperate harmattan;
My cries are a rustling of leaves under a sun
That never fades- washing my face in strict rays
Its attendance is long overstayed;
Resting on my absent mind

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
Weeping proudly without a rush of blinking tears;
This everyday world isn’t my beloved home to own-
A shelter neglecting to cover my nakedness

I sit outside in the world’s
Quick-witted; criticizing eyes
With a tiny cloth left damp, sodden and weary
By the stretched tears flowing down my bare *******
The world quickly suckles on my grief –
Biting, pulling, and scarring them by their buds
calling it all fair by its, “Budding remarks”
With the goalmouth of getting itself full up;
Never nursing the agony.  

                     Oh, how my heart hurts!

I am not the man for a moment;-
more so trying to be a writer, and questioning
whether I actually still enjoy being a poet.

I am… an interlude, just another episode
in between two random pages- open to seeing
the anomaly of the next chapter, or more or less
staying blissfully content on the things of old.

Refusing to give up, but at the moment,
willing enough to give up the pen.
Sigh… I think the poet is finally dead.

Embrace the future's call
treasure the present's glow
and transcend the bygone flow.

Oh to owe what isn’t owned; glorifying riches at hand to hold
— not for long. Skeletons, carcases, dust to dust, bones grow cold
as they get old; as the foundations you place your wealth on –
grow hollow once more.

As a man with absolutely nothing, has all the space in the world, to feel
they don’t belong. A man with everything counts up the credits they’re
owed, alas counting up all of the funds, to be counting down their days.

The grounds we walk on are all so slippery- constantly sliding money for
food. Working all of your life; filling up twenty-four hour slots gambling
all that one has at hand, end to end for ends meet.

We cannot hold onto time any longer then we try to hold onto money;
trying to weather through it all - it’s only easier when the weather's fine,
As hard times slip under the door, and the key to it refuses to thaw.

Still the poverty trap has steel jaws that snap, the trap of chasing money
as an escape- rises ourselves as serpents, curved to swallow our own tail.

                                  Our own tragedy of ssss…success.

To these incoming affections, capricious
outcoming sentiments, for an escort to date;
Would I die for anything close to true love—
honestly, I’d pray I’m not too late.

Ole to the beautiful flower hidden underneath
a shadow- a beautiful flower in bloom, alongside
a naked truth. Sensual images, picturing gentle
moves to drive love so pure and never felt;
its eyes a flower garden of unspoiled- felt so heavenly.
Permit me to kiss you evenly by heaven’s sweet entry;
flowing in sync; we’ll rest in a lily field of complete
serenity.

And she replied to him:

Our first meeting of first feelings- never felt before,
as I waited in the shadows; longing for the needs
within us, for one another. Aroused in my inner core
to touch and explore love in treasured completeness
and wholeness. Share your life with me and within me;
darling fall into my arms, and allow me to feel my inner
spirit for you within- burning endlessly from my soul’s
aflame.

                                      Shall we burn together.