If growing more successful and earning more money,
means losing your roots... please don't plant me in a
*** filled with riches.

If being famous means losing your soul... please don't
let me walk around with fame.

If being a leader of many means I start to become
corrupt... please don't put me in charge of a nation.

And if being heard means harshly silencing those
around me... please don't let me have a...

Scribbling out my thoughts, with each stroke of the pen, fervently hoping to extract a semblance of life from this inkless, desolate fountain pen. Its once vibrant hue now fades into anemic oblivion, mirroring the emptiness within me. As I sit in the dimly lit room, the scratching of the pen on paper is the only sound, echoing the restlessness in my soul.

Each stroke reveals a fragment of my innermost desires, like forgotten whispers fighting to be heard. The ink, trapped within the confines of this aging vessel, clings to the paper like a loyal companion, breathing life into my otherwise mundane existence. The weight of my emotions presses down upon the pen, as though I am trying to etch my very essence onto the page.

In this dance between writer and pen, the barren inkwell becomes the protagonist of its own tragic tale. It yearns to bleed its vivid hues, to spill out tales of love, loss, and triumph, onto the awaiting canvas. But alas, it remains trapped in a state of perpetual stillness, biding its time for the right catalyst to set it free.

Yet, in the midst of this desolation, a flicker of hope emerges, a belief that maybe, just maybe, the power of my words can awaken the dormant ink within this abandoned pen. The strokes of my pen become resolute, each scrawl breathing new life into the barren page. The empty fountain pen transforms into a conduit, a vessel of creative expression, as if channeling the very essence of my thoughts and emotions onto the once-blank canvas.

With each stroke, my pen becomes an extension of my heart and mind, releasing the simmering passions, the unspoken truths, and the profound yearnings that reside within me. Though the ink may falter and waver at times, its presence alone serves as a testament to the vitality of my spirit, refusing to be silenced.

And so, I continue to scribble, guided by an unwavering determination to find life within this parched pen. Its empty state no longer solely reflects futility, but rather the incredible potential that awaits, yearning to be discovered. In this journey of expression, every stroke is a celebration, transforming the mere act of writing into an act of liberation, as I release the boundless energy of my imagination onto the tangible page.

Let me down once again, burying me in disappointment;
a heavy burden, burying me deep within its grasp. A grim demise, but the truth is, I have experienced this feeling of lifelessness before. Scream at my face, as if I don’t listen enough,—following around like a personal slave to people. **** in my face when you’re ******* at me. Tie your opinions of me, as I have these knots on my tongue.

     Treat me as nothing more than a worthless *******, just
to cover yourself with a new sheet. Blame me for all of the mistakes, as I misplace my happiness and put on this fake smile on my face. Cast a shadow over my days, letting me catch a glimpse of your true colors in the absence of light.

     Call me, “*****,” and “little ****;” I doubt any of those words
will hurt as much as they did before. Break your tongue on
trying to say things that will break my spirit. You all already
tried to break me before; you won’t break me anymore.

I or you; is the question to ask of who will die first for who,
I owe you; an explanation of why I can’t say the three important words to give an account towards my wicked heart,
I O U; the three important vowels to make up that heavy weighted phrase:

                                          “I love you.”

Here's a story of a possible future, reminiscing on the work my
wrist would have done,— my next watch should cost me forty eight.
Two days later hearing my kids complaining about how they
barely ate. But it would cost me less if I had more fame; with
my biggest fear of people saying I'm not the same. Still I guess we'll only know when the times actually change.
Living in a mansion, telling a girl I'd like to live in her hand, just to buy rings to expand it more. Add a couple chandeliers just so she can see herself as an angel under her Lord. But truth be told, I could be on the streets, living in her heart only by corners of it. And she'd hate to ******* pride, cos I know it all tastes of *****.

Owing the credit to my success by every dream that owed a debit.
Thinking of it now, I'd be smiling in a much comfortable home,
knowing it's something I actually own. Telling people I did what I had to do, when my worries were knocking on my door with a lot dues. The uncomfortable conversation you make with your landlord when the rent is due,— but even with fame, society will come knocking to see what more you can bring... it's all nothing new.

I already have silent panic attacks, lying on my bed with open eyes, relying on tomorrow being a bit better. Still being alone in a mansion, waiting for a heart attack, as today's are already hectic, and tomorrow's all carry a lot of pressure. Would I really want to stop working, calling someone I sort of loved late at night when the Wi-Fi is actually working,— to tell them nothing in my life seems to be working.
"Was it all worth," she'd probably ask me. What could I say; I perfected my life but life still doesn't seem to be so perfect. Of how I found fame, but my identity is something I'm out here still searching.

The first to ****, regarding myself in first person,
by forty eight, dying alone without fulfilling his purpose. And your story becomes a lesson to someone in the third person. I guess I wouldn't have bought the watch in the first place; ticking away my life till it all worsens.

...So before I ever find fame, let me at least find my purpose.

Kiss me under my eye, for a reason for me to want to see you again.

igniting a fire within my soul, making me crave more
of your presence in my life.

Place a mat of your love on my back, to remind
me I need to tidy up my past.
With your unwavering support, I'll know I always have
you, even with the dirt I might bring home
Put a flower in my mouth every time we kiss,
so I can have a last taste of beauty before you go.
Later on we'll have late conversation when my confidence
blooms, at a call to rise;— the flower better be a rose.

Snip a piece of your hair to tie with my belt
buckle, just so I can wear a memory of you,
buckling at the future and all of our perfect heirs.

Cut a collar of my shirt, to have me by the neck.

intimate and possessive,
to symbolize your claim over me.

And if that material wears out, you can wear
my incense instead. Like your sweet perfume that gets
stuck on my neck; digging into my flesh with desire
—I'll be cut throat when it comes to show how you make me feel.

With all feelings involved, I can definitely say
what I'm feeling of those scary words,
"I think I'm falling in love"

Musty kisses, so much like cologne with a musky smell, leave a lasting aftertaste—an indication of a man desperately trying to conceal his insecurities. Rumors have circulated that he has resorted to manipulation and mind games in his interactions with women, resembling a predatory elite, a muskellunge lurking in the depths of a freshwater lake. As nightfall approaches, he prepares himself for the evening's activities, donning his goggles like a skilled diver ready to plunge headfirst into the murky waters of awkward conversation and those all-too-familiar first impressions. With an air of self-assuredness, he boasts about his past athletic achievements; "Hey I used to be good at sports," obviously spelled out on his letterman jacket as evidence of his once formidable sporting prowess. "While I may have retired from the game, but perhaps tonight you can play ball, and be the one to play with my *****," he slyly suggests, fueled by liquid confidence provided by a few shots of courage. Unfortunately for him, the weight of his words pales in comparison to the value of the drinks he has been offering the object of his attention. So of course she won't pay attention.

As her patience wears thin, she cannot contain her frustration any longer and resorts to throwing the last swallow of her drink in his
face, an act meant to deflate his ego. Instead of swallowing his pride, he bounces back like the reverberations echoing through the empty club. Retrieving a cigarette from the left pocket of his coat, he ignites a flame and engulfs himself in a cloud of smoke, attempting to find solace in his self-imposed camouflage through his chimney neck.
Without skipping a beat, he beckons for another glass of whiskey and casually whistles a tune before every sip, as though seeking comfort in the familiarity of his routines. In a fleeting moment, his gaze meets mine, almost as if we were old friends sharing a silent understanding.

Little does he know, I am acquainted with the man behind the facade, aware of the pain he actively conceals behind his bravado. There is a tragic narrative woven into his life, one in which he has been consistently belittled by a brother, leaving him with no choice but to compensate for his perceived shortcomings by pushing boundaries. Within him, there is an unmistakable sense of being lost, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Tomorrow, he will consume his own words, choking on the regret that accompanies his intoxicated state and *****. It is a sobering tale indeed, one that asks us to consider how we may overlook fragments of our own pain reflected in the brokenness of others.

Open to the mesmerizing sight of love, I would fervently pursue the captivating idea all on my own, like a lone wolf relentlessly hunting down its prey. With a predatory grace, I would skillfully stalk you, my innocent deer,—
In this unspoken forest of the night's serenade, where the moonlight casts ethereal shadows upon the earth, I find myself compelled to howl at the songs of their mysterious silhouettes. With an uncontainable excitement building within me, I carry a devilish grin that tugs at the corners of my lips, anticipating the moment when I can unleash a torrent of words, forming a sentence that will not only capture your attention but also leave an indelible impression on your soul.

My words, like white-water rapids crashing against the rocks, will bite down on your ear with a playful yet alluring intensity. They will weave sentences that touch the deepest recesses of your mind, evoking emotions that you never knew existed within you. Like a gentle caress that ignites a fire, my words will tickle your pleasure, awakening desires that have long been dormant.

With every beat of my heart, I am driven to explore the uncharted territories of love with you. Together, we will delve into the depths of passion, traversing treacherous landscapes of vulnerability and trust. Your heart will become my sanctuary, a place where our love can flourish and grow, protected by the fierce and unwavering loyalty of a wolf...
your gate wolf, forever vigilant in protecting the sanctity of our shared connection.

I saw Heaven hanging over my head like a chandelier, it's
angels were swimming in the light, whispering sweet hymns,—
in a kaleidoscope filled with broken dreams.
The gates fell open like a strand of hair, trumpets were blaring for kings, with thrones like rocking chairs, of my ancestors and their heirs. On earth, I had cattle trodding around my heart to pay for love; as dowry couldn't pay enough for who I once loved.
I drank the tears of Heaven's rains, to tie my tithes wrapped
around my neck; waiting for their fortunes reigns.

I kissed an angel that melted my lips, and had suckled on the ******* of mother nature, who fed me milk and honey to keep me alive. I danced around the edge of an end, where life begins once again. My toes felt cold as a tear drop lost in snow,— my ears were ringing like the church carillon, calling me to repent.
And from the stained glass window frames, it all immediately painted out my pain.

I thought of you, just before I took my last breath, begging the favours from the mistress of Death. I felt like a flower in your hand; each petal being picked away, asking the question of,
"does she love me or love me not." I thought of being holy enough to fit in your heart, but I was as holey as the holes in my socks. My prayers all stunk of the lie behind them all. I looked into your eyes to see heaven inside, as I was living in the world.
I bit on time to have it for seconds, and served a dish of revenge only in my heart,— I was taught it will always be a cold meal; so
I'd use my spark of love to keep it warm. I shared stories with
the world, told my biggest secrets to the sky, and left
breadcrumbs to them, in every word of my poems.

Still...in the chaos of my mind, lied a still river flowing with worth. Drowning myself in your eyes, as your every tear was the inspiration of what became our story. But I know in the end, our love will just be another person's story...

When we were young, sipping on cherry lip kisses,
with a blush of your tears in the afternoon
Simplistic conversation between as two, to seem
casual around your friends. Worshiping our music
on these random rock playlists, while I spoke of your
name, as if it were Queen,— giving you a reason to rule.
Bathroom stains of blood dripping down the black drain,
concrete smiles, drinking chlorine out of broken glasses
Cutting at our smiles; marking each other with bites
on our necks.

Boys with ripped jeans by their pockets; we couldn't
carry a lot of our dreams. Camouflage wallets filled
with an army of our last coins just to cover a ride back home.
Living on a small income, hoping for a good outcome,
and to not baby the night for each other without ***.
But every girl is smiling for a money shot, knowing they
could never afford a real ******. And the boys trying to protect
desires, unfortunately learning how to wear condoms watching ****.

I still remember when I drove ahead of the road, just to
get some head. Blowing away my brain with a few lines of blow.
Trying to find my dreams with a bottle full of sleeping pills,
resting my worries on a torn out mattress, in a city with no area
code. I didn't have much people to call on, whenever my bipolar
started to show; when you sold yourself short on your happiness on
some cheap night thrills.

Sunday blues became the sobering messages while you're
hungover, burning on a bush that never seems to burn over.
Never owning a bark to the trees we've smoked,— still I remember
the good stuff could be bought for just a buck. Still trying your
luck at popping a girls box like popcorn; hoping we can make a
movie with the snack. Still if I even had the skill to blow out her
back, my attachment issues will always have me coming back.

I could never apologise for my youth, till I die young.
But as my eyes live till forever, being forever young would be a
death sentence to me. Serving time on the words we all loved
to say of that stupid quote: "you only live once"

      _...yeah right.

I am a raindrop, born in the clouds. My existence, a fleeting dance between the ethereal and the tangible. I join my siblings, millions of others, in a journey that seems both endless and predestined. We tumble, we spin, we collide, and yet there is a strange sense of harmony to it all. As if we are part of something greater than ourselves, something that transcends the physical world.

And then, finally, we reach the edge of the world. The vast, endless expanse that stretches out before us. We plummet, feeling the weight of gravity pulling us down, down, down. The wind rushes past us, tearing at our tiny forms, yet somehow it also carries us forward. It whispers secrets of the world below, of the life that awaits us in the depths.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, my journey ends. I strike the surface of the water with a soft splash, disappearing beneath the surface. I am no longer a raindrop, but a part of something else now. I am a leaf in the still waters of a pond.

The world around me is a study in contrasts. Above, the sky stretches out in shades of blue, dotted with clouds that occasionally drift past, casting shadows over the water. Below, a carpet of greenery sways gently in the breeze, hinting at a hidden world teeming with life. I drift lazily, carried by the currents, my only concern being to stay afloat and avoid being swept away.

Drifting gracefully on the serene surface of a tranquil pond, I exist as a leaf with no defined purpose, no specific path to follow, and no inner musings. Contentedly, I meander aimlessly, embracing the tranquility that envelops these undisturbed waters. As a leaf, I find solace in simply being, surrendering to the gentle currents that guide my journey.

An investor buys an expensive watch to stay ahead of time. While the rest, will buy it to look like they have all the time in the world. We'll hold onto to the past, to appear we can hold time in our hand; wrapping your arm in the tune of your own success, both for the applauds of a band. Still if money does talk, there'll be a disconnect holding money to your ear. Trying to seem like you talk business, but in the efforts of a sold out career. The taste of a risk, is the blood your poured out of your wrist,— covering up those scars with a time piece. Still time never gives me any real peace, for a piece of thought, is me always wondering what time is.

Murderers killing the itch of time, scratching at the wait of doing something productive at every inch. The weight of robbers stealing time, will be carried away by the imaginary fortunes they think they have, just like the rich. I know you can't really scratch that painful itch by being rich, but it does help me afford the cream to soothe that feeling of a pinch. To not pinch a penny, over thinking how to save your self. When every penny for a thought, is thinking about how you can increase your wealth. As time is money; money only comes in due time, I might have as well bought an expensive watch, to keep watch on this money of mine.

...Still money will never be enough, as there will never be enough time.

Put away your glass eye, and you'll see just how delicate you truly are. Your mind may be sharp, but please, don't gaze
upon my chest and leave me with another scar.
Allow me to demonstrate the foolishness of being madly
in love, when you constantly say, "you run miles on my mind,"
but truthfully I need you to first find that path.

As we compare ourselves to the past, time refuses to wait
for us. We can't spend too much time second-guessing,
as everything comes to pass, and even when I feel irritable,
it all falls so short in my very face.
But hey, life is too tall, and I can't afford to fall so quickly from grace. Still, even when I express my gratitude, it seems to
be the only most answered prayer. Still I pray to protect you from the preying eyes of the world, like the many wolves lurking in the shadows. Every man has an instinct to hunt, but I could never sense their intentions with my own cold nose.

Some days, I yearn to touch your skin as gently as I touch
the sky, always hopeful for tomorrow.
I want to witness every petal of tears that fall from your eyes, reminding me that you are my precious flower. I must protect and guard, while leading with the energy of a man who is still learning, but also in charge.

Yet, life as I know it feels like a stubborn plug in the wall, refusing to give in even when I'm on the verge of burning out. Unlike an angry dog, I may drool, but it's not a pretty sight
at all. Beautiful thoughts only seem to exist in the corners of darkness. Perhaps a single kiss from you will ignite a spark of love, even if it only comes in fleeting sparkles.

Bur don't indulge in my darkness, for the void is filled with nothingness that will make you starve.
But let me gather the courage to say, "I like you," before
I can muster the strength to call you my love.
But then again, what is love: an awkward word, one that carries a multitude of emotions and sensations that delicately tickle underneath the surface of our skin. It can be a rollercoaster
of feelings, sometimes even getting on our nerves. Picture love
as an unlikely image, framed within the memories of one being so, so afraid to talk to girls.

Imagination, on the other hand, is a powerful faculty of the mind. It is an untamed force that can conjure up vivid and extraordinary scenarios, but it can also be harnessed and controlled by a trained mind. Love, however, is a different story. It is wild, unpredictable, and capable of leading us off track when our feelings can no longer hide.

Love is like a tempestuous storm, capable of stirring our hearts passionately and altering the courses of our lives. It knows no boundaries and can ignite an intense and overpowering flame within us. But playing with your match won't be so wise; playing with fires. Love can make us feel vulnerable and exposed,
as if the mere thought of interacting with the opposite ***
could send us spiraling into a spiral of anxiety and self-doubt.
Pricking at my heart, while I go around picking up another rose.

Still when it comes to true love, I never have enough words...
so perhaps that justifies me to say I'm in love,— being lost
for words. Or course that goes against the laws; if love ever
had them at all.
You could live by forever, but truthfully forever will always
be so far away,— so we'd just have this moment where we stay.
And one day, someday or even a Monday, love won't lack
the passion, and making me feel so mundane. But I'll only
know when I fall in love one day.

When your skin is darker than your past, you'll find
yourself instinctively seeking shade, avoiding the scorching
rays of the sun that seem to tarnish its complexion.
Its once radiant appearance now tinged with the remnants
of the flames, forever leaving a mark.
You may feel that all your imperfections persist, yearning
to be acknowledged and embraced, yet often remaining
unnoticed by the oblivious eyes of the world.
You, my dear, have become a surreal spectacle, captivating
the gaze of many with your unique blend of beauty and vulnerability.

In this collective exchange of glances, you discover
a remarkable unity, a deep connection that transcends
mere superficiality. It is as if each shared look weaves
together the threads of our lives, binding us in a profound
state of matrimony, where understanding and acceptance intertwine.

As we stand together, lost in the enigmatic origins of life,
it becomes apparent that your skin holds a story, an
uninterrupted lineage that stretches back through time.
It is a tapestry of ancestral struggles and triumphs, a testament
to resilience and fortitude. And like the night that envelops
the world, your dusky guardian complexion bears witness
to the strength and beauty that lies within.

But let us not be judged solely by what meets the eye.
Peel back this outer layer, delve deeper into who we truly are,
and you will discover hearts that beat with the same
tenderness, dreams that flourish within the obscure depths of
our souls. Don't let the label of "African child,"
confine us to a predetermined destiny; instead, let it be
a celebration of our heritage, a recognition of the richness
and diversity that flows through our veins.

So, my dear, as we navigate our way through this complex
and ever-changing world, let your skin be a canvas,
not only for the painted white of eyes that might cast
judgments, but for the genuine smiles that radiate from within.
Embrace your darkness, your unique hue, and let it stand
as a testament to the vibrant spirit that resides in the
depths of your being.

Every once in a while, it becomes clear to me
that I've been walking a mile with a horse by my side.  
A symbolic journey, with my pockets filled with Trojans.
Perhaps prepared to protect myself and take risks in
my love life.

At times, I might have felt confident and ready for excitement
a couple of nights before, attempting to shake things up
and still maintain the stability of my love affairs.
A delicate balance, like walking a tightrope between
passion and commitment.

There is a cause for concern underlying my seemingly
carefree facade; pretending to own my emotions and
express them through words, yet I owe so much to truly
convey how I feel.
It leaves me quietly standing with a muted passion, akin
to a jacaranda tree with its purple blossoms. I am trying to
defy time itself, hoping that my thoughts won't easily be
blown away like your hair caught in the wind.

It's not in my nature to capture every moment with a camera, constantly immortalizing you in photographs. There's an underlying insecurity within me, wondering if any of those snapshots would truly capture the essence of our connection. Yet, deep down, I yearn for everything to work out in the end. Even if we may appear to have vacancy eyes, who's to say that we'll see it all working out until the very end?

Perhaps, when I say "I love you," it feels easier when I say it
as if I'm expressing my feelings to a dear friend.
When I profess to "always protect you," it is reminiscent of
how I would watch over a little sister, ensuring their safety
and well-being.
When I claim "I can't live without you," I compare you to my
bed, a place where I find comfort and solace. In this comparison, I acknowledge that if I were to lose you, there would always be another place for me to rest my heart.

Despite my attempts at navigating love and relationships,
I find myself entangled in my own mess. It's a mess that I continue to explore, experimenting with different connections and learning more about myself through my interactions with others, particularly women.

The camera is rolling, incessantly capturing every moment of our lives, leaving us with a world that never stops recording, where privacy becomes a luxury unbeknownst to us. In these private matters, we find ourselves stripped of any semblance of secrecy, exposed to the prying eyes of an ever-watchful audience.

As we gaze upon Mother Earth, we see her through an unsettling lens, viewing her as a captivating entity, akin to a seductive **** who has birthed and nurtured countless lives. Yet, contrasting our admiration, there persists an underlying desire to possess and consume her in a primal, carnal manner. It is as if we hold a fetishistic fascination with her, using fiery words to address her before we even think to disrobe ourselves from the layers of convenience and comfort, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

This portrayal begs the question of how mankind perceives themselves amidst this intimate performance. Are we mere objects to be stripped down and devoured for the amusement of an unfeeling audience? Stripped of our dignity and possessions, we are left bare, vulnerable, and at the mercy of those who derive pleasure from exploiting our vulnerability. It is akin to a mesmerizing striptease, a tantalizing display that leaves us yearning for something greater.

In the face of such exposure, we find ourselves humbled and powerless, compelled to seek solace and redemption from a higher power. Constantly begging to be bathed in the love and mercy of a divine entity, we yearn for a respite from the unyielding gaze of the world. It appears that the world derives pleasure from witnessing us in a state of vulnerability, reducing us to our weakest form, our knees bent in submission.

In this revelatory expansion of the original sentence, we delve deeper into the implications of a world that ceaselessly records our actions. We explore the complex dynamics between humanity and the environment, finding parallels in our treatment of Mother Earth and our own susceptibility to exploitation. The expanded content retains the core meaning and context, while elaborating on the themes of vulnerability, power dynamics, and the search for solace and redemption.

Life never really gets easier the more you grow, you just grow tougher skin. As you navigate through the various stages and chapters of life, you quickly come to realize that the challenges and obstacles don't disappear; they merely morph and evolve. While we may yearn for a smooth-sailing journey, where each passing year brings more ease and comfort, the truth is that life has a way of throwing unexpected curveballs our way. However, what does change is our ability to adapt and cope with these challenges.

As we grow older, we accumulate a wealth of experiences, both good and bad, that shape our perspective and inner strength. It's as if we develop an invisible armor, a thick layer of resilience that shields us from the impact of life's adversities. We become adept at bouncing back from failures, disappointments, and heartbreaks. We learn to reframe setbacks as opportunities for growth and self-discovery. We develop a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us, which gives us the strength to face whatever comes our way.

Additionally, growing tougher skin doesn't mean that we become hardened or desensitized to the joys and beauty of life. On the contrary, we appreciate the little moments of happiness and find solace in the simple pleasures. We learn to savor the present and find gratitude in even the smallest things. This ability to find joy amidst the chaos, to see the silver lining in every situation, is a testament to our growth and resilience.

Moreover, growing tougher skin means that we become more comfortable with uncertainty and change. We no longer fear the unknown but instead embrace it as an opportunity for growth. We become flexible and adaptable in the face of unforeseen circumstances, knowing that we have the strength and resilience to navigate whatever life throws at us.

Ultimately, the concept of growing tougher skin is about cultivating inner strength and emotional resilience. It's about developing the skills and mindset necessary to navigate the ups and downs of life with grace and composure. It's realizing that life will always present challenges, but our ability to face them head-on is what truly matters. And as we continue to grow and mature, we become more equipped to handle whatever life has in store for us. So, while life may not necessarily become easier, we can take solace in the fact that we are continuously growing stronger and more resilient with each passing day.

Seasonal changes,
as there must be a summer in your kiss,—
to give me the light to my smile.
And in the course of romanticising, I must
have crashed my ship on your open land.
As the words to say what I want to say, annoyingly
get stuck in my mouth, like something stuck in your teeth.

But as you lick your lips, I hope it doesn't mean
you're trying to get a lick out of me.
At least once; we've all tasted deceit, and I'm praying
that it won't be the very last taste for me.
We both could have lived out our highs of the city life,
but I'm trying to get a little closer to you where you homestead.
Even if it seems rural, I'd make the most of it whenever
you choose to come to my home instead.

But I don't own an address, yet;
—still you can live on my mind.
Even when I don't own a mattress, you can rest on
knowing that there will always be a place by my side.

We'll make casual conversation in every formal setting.
Part ways with our busy days, just to fit each other
in a section of our busy schedules.
And to end it all off with setting our hearts at another
session, as you cross my mind, knowing you're the thought
that waits at the intersection.

And even when the roads seem slippery,
–I'll have my grip on you.
      Henceforth, Seasonal changes.

You try to see everything beautiful in this world,
you've got roses in your eyes,— you're pretty much blind.
Those two pretty eyes, rosey cheeks look like the petals of your blushing love, — I'd like you to be my pretty bride.

Cherished memories of us, on this old Spotify playlist;
my heart is overwhelmed with longing and lovesickness,
— a passion that seems to fall short in making me
any more patient.

I find myself completely consumed by that intoxicating
madness of an undesirable love; constantly lost into its
utmost and unforgiving potential;
...picturing me as your devoted psychopath, an
unyielding presence in the maze-like corridors of
a mind, and it's undetermined cycle path.
Ready to cycle back, and drown out a heart's love
in a cycle bath. Washing away your inner demon 's past;
while washing your back.

My heart is an eager match,  
striving to ignite a fiery blaze of affection,
and I caught your spark by your bright smile,
as I'd fight for this love when you and I are a match.

Then again...

I could have been crazy enough to imagine it all in my head.

She has her highs,
I have most of my blue
While all of my messages are read,
no matter what I say, I can barely see much
love out of my purple eye's hue.

Time is golden,
still I tend to **** most of it nowadays
While death is black; my envy is always
present of the green someone makes,
—maybe I'd **** to be famous one day.

My chest feels burdensome,
and too heavy for me to cough.
As I put an end to myself with scotch,
as nothing would sit well with me like a
darker brown spot on an already brown couch.

Blue, red, purple,
Gold, black, green,
Scotch and brown
—seems I'm all of these colours going around.

In the realm of my chamber, where the walls stand tall and proud, a crack resides, a testament to the passage of time. Each morn I awaken to its presence, my gaze instinctively drawn to its jagged lines, as if it holds a secret waiting to be unraveled. Curiosity blooms in my chest, like an ephemeral flower, its petals seeking to understand the start and end of this enigmatic fracture. Yet, despite my relentless pondering, its origin remains shrouded in ambiguity, evading the grasp of my eager mind.

Venturing beyond the boundaries of my chamber, I traverse the intricate labyrinth of rooms that exist in this grand tapestry of my abode. And lo and behold, that very crack that has captivated my attention seems to follow me, lurking in the hidden corners and unassuming intersections. Its presence, though subtle, is undeniable, an unspoken confidant whispering ancient stories and untold secrets. Returning to the sanctuary of my own haven, I find the crack more defined than ever, etched into the walls like a mark of permanence. Unyielding, unchanging, it stands as a constant reminder of its presence within the depths of my consciousness.

Oh, how I've longed to mend it, to bridge the gaping divide and restore harmony to the once-seamless surface. I've tirelessly searched for the perfect mortar and the right tools, but alas, it persists, taunting me like a mischievous specter, forever out of reach. This crack, with its resilient nature, seems to possess a life of its own, defying all attempts at erasure. It has become a fixture of my sight, a permanent resident in my waking hours and a steadfast companion throughout the moments between dusk and dawn.

But, dear listener, let me share with you a truth that lies dormant within the depths of my soul, hidden beneath the dusty layers of reality. This crack, you see, is not what it appears to be. It exists not in the physical walls that surround me, but within the intangible realm of dreams. It is a fracture of thoughts, a crevice in my mind that transcends the confines of the tangible world. This crack, oh, how much it speaks of the human experience, the complexities and contradictions that shape our very essence. It is the crack that embodies the intangibility of our emotions, the fractures that define our individual journeys.

So, as I gaze upon this crack, ever-present and unwavering, I find solace in its inexplicable existence.

Today I woke up feeling quite fulfilled today
...haha, yeah right.
But let's pretend I was a glass of water in the eyes of an optimistic,— I'd be half full, right?
Still if I ever said that enough times in this negative world, they'd all say I'm always so full of myself, right?

I wish time was as easy as skipping rocks over a pond.
It would be wonderful if, with a skip, I could
effortlessly transport myself to the other side
of that looming idea, finding the promise of the
future waiting for me there.

As I take each step, I envision them as stepping stones,
guiding me towards my goals and ambitions,
hoping I won't encounter another heartbreaking
moment that brings tears to my eyes.

The serene green scenery that surrounds
me serves as a reminder that my soul is still
burdened with the stains of past mistakes.
Yet, despite the passing of time, I find myself
at a loss for words, unable to utter another
empty prayer while feeling a lump in my throat,
like a frog is trapped within.

The missed chances,— you and I are the same,
still like misplaced socks, I haven't found
my match. Equal the amount of the days
I start to swallow novacane
I'll still pick up the roses that turn into diamonds,
demanding the worth of a beautiful love.
Betting on the odds with every card on the table,
my eyes feel ****** for loving you, while their
tears are blocked like the Kariba Dam.

There's no truth to recognise, with two lovers
completely blind
Landlocked, never to drown away enough in
our own emotions, with nothing much to sea.
Would you believe me or not,— depends on our
bad religions, putting faith in the words we hardly heard.
"I love you my son, I love you my daughter,
   I love you my sister  I love you my brother"

Every thought of love is televised, and we've been
ill-advised. Our daughters and sons shouldn't learn
from us,— from boys who write about *** and love
And girls who read into them, and give away the
innocence in between their thighs.

       The truth with ourselves is absolute...

The night's blowouts — Are like my last candle before the night is gone. It's a comforting ritual, lighting that candle and reveling in the flickering flame... The soft glow illuminates the room, casting a gentle light on the shadows that gather. It's in these moments, in the solitude, that I find solace. I cherish the tranquility as it offers me an opportunity to reflect and escape the chaos of the world. The candle's warm glow creates a haven, —a sanctuary where I can truly be myself.

And while I don't mind being alone, there is an undeniable
pull to the memories we shared: They wrap around my mind like vines, intertwining with my thoughts and emotions.
Looking in the mirror, I see my reflection intertwined with
the shadow of your memory.
It's as if we're dancing together, across time and space,
moving in harmony with the music of our past. The melody of our shared experiences plays softly in the background, a bittersweet tune that still resonates deep within my heart.
The dance we shared was a masterpiece—,_ filled with
passion, laughter, and tears. Even though the song has
ended, its melody lingers, etching its mark on my soul.

Still like the past, the memories in it comes to pass, allowing us to grow and evolve. They are like stepping stones, guiding us towards a future where new memories are waiting to be created.
Even if I have to create a new life without you...

"**** the world,"
seems to be a statement easy enough for a lot of people to say.
And at most we **** mother nature raw, cos we failed to protect her; I just hope we can be more responsible for her baby one day. But I do hear her walls shaking, as her eyes are timid tears blocked behind a lot of smoke.
Maybe we should write for her an SOS as a last hope, and stop feeding our prideful thoughts against her,— food for thought? Truthfully, this first part is more like a representation of how
men tend to **** over their girl.

I guess I should include myself by this second bad serving,
along the lines of me remembering how I used to treat girls like second servings. Some would call a woman sweet, but I'm not convinced of it being a compliment,— more of a dessert thing.
Like how she's supposed to taste sweeter every time you and her kiss, as she's supposed to be a treat, but you had to spoil her. Spoiling yourself by spoiling yourself on her. Careful now, you might have misread what she was saying when she bit her lips.

But by this third part, I tried convince myself not to swear,
still **** it, — I was at this point more annoyed with myself,
as a person who knows they're prone to getting sick
...So they get annoyed with their health. As I fail to have healthy conversations with myself, and reflect on some memories.
But my memories are mostly bad dreams, and bad dreams mostly make up a lot of bad things.
And keeping them to myself means I'll always blame myself more, than wanting to split the blame between friends and family.
And like the second verse,
I now understand the taste of getting a bad serving.
Unfortunately I don't bite my lips as an expression of pleasure. My lips to the taste of failure is always a ******,—so right now, this part is really ******* hurting.

So can somebody please, get this ******* disappointment
off me, before it thinks it's turning me on, but it's close
to offing me.

I flip conversations with people like a mattress,
just an excuse to put a lot of arguments to rest.
As if time isn't good enough for me to miss,
I'll set my targets on doing something better another time,
to come back to the previous line's rhyme,— just
to prove I haven't fallen asleep, as I digress.

Still with all due respect, respect for a lot of things
seems a bit late, when all the clocks are put to death;
while we're all killing most of the time. But I should
bag a couple more seconds, to add to the restlessness
under the bags of my eyes.
....I'm always so less inspired, when I actually have
something sensible to write,— To then choose to write
more when I'm round the corner of Writer's block,
breaking down every block of thoughts in my Tetris mind.

But seriously, what was the point of this in the first
place anyways,— right about some random mattress.
A mattress sort of represents me trying to stay soft with
my words, but being firm with their initial cause.
And somewhere in between this prose, I'm supposed to
quote how you shouldn't be sleeping on my words.
That's easy an cliche, a cliche to me, of waking up to an
ugly day from a long beauty rest. Sorry I meant to say
ironic; and it's sort of comic.  Not the one that makes
you laugh, but the material magazine you flip over
like the start of my random mattress.

And just like that, how I start most of the things in my life,
is how it ends, and starts again. So I guess for flips sake,
I'm back to flipping the mattress again, and again...

I feel lucid as my lost dreams, loosely as could be,
To act upon my wicked heart's desire as Lucifer could have
been, and if that's just human, Lucifers all are we.
I've been mostly running out of time, with not much seconds
to count. And I don't blame the company of family wanting to
keep me out,—I don't blame you, I'd want to kick myself
out of my house. I should do better, but I don't seem to match
the words of people's expectations; never really lived on the
letter. But I sometimes hope in a next lifetime I could be clever.
        A lesser of a lessor, but I don't have much of a heart to rent
                                ...out, or let anyone I know to reflect my love.
The pro's and con's of loving me, a con of a man who only really shows the truth in his prose. Mixing the art with the inspiration
of rap; all of which are the stories that pass, and a gift towards a
movie picture of the present. I guess that's a wrap.

By the hopes of a double entendre, I hope I could double out
my life facts. Maybe if I could dream a life of living out my
best fictions, I could be justified to give a god thanks.
Masking my pride with the smiles I pull out of my pocket,
while trying to live a life on time I had to borrow.
But even if you swallow the seed of a man, you still
couldn't birth his much-needed humbleness.
                             ..."I guess pride is much harder to swallow."

And like an addiction of the pills I had, the truth of
my own addictions are all so hard to swallow.
Still every piece I write feels like a letter to my younger self,
hoping he doesn't follow in my footsteps,— I wasn't the best
role model. The teen who would roll a model blunt just
to get a flood of ideas to drown out his mind.
But that's a lie; I never really was the one who knew how
to roll up one, and of course the intention was just to get high.
          Still... what's there to expect of a shy guy,
mostly the types who refuse to cry, choosing to give a bitter
reply. Never to say what's really on their mind: the truth
                     is I'm....sigh never mind!

I'm just writing to pass the time, like passing that blunt,
feeling like I can't, but I'd rather take knowing that I can't,
          then having more people call me out as a ****.

The darkness that consumed me made me feel like wanting
to die, even before the age of nine.
However, let's count our blessings that none of the individuals
in the house owned a nine. I find myself engulfed in these thoughts,
I make a desperate plea to hold on, just like hanging
clothes on a line.
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.

My heart remains motionless, resembling a lifeless mannequin, and if you look closely, you may witness the damages.
I cautiously open the door to my own insanity, but the idea of grappling with its dark influence feels overwhelmingly intimidating,— I can't handle this.
Fear grips me as I contemplate unveiling my eyes, for I
dread the somber reality that they will behold.
Once again, I urge my thoughts to remain steadfast, like
clothing hung on a line, as the echoes of the voices -
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.


A peculiar itch consumes my lips, almost as if I long for
the  Death's kisses. Within the depths of my depression, I struggle to maintain a sense of identity, for this overwhelming sadness has become my greatest weakness. I endeavor to traverse the arduous path of mental instability, navigating the metaphorical distance of a "crazy mile".
However, I feel invisible, unnoticed by the world as I bear witness to my own pain. The allure of escapism entices me, enticing me to run towards the temporary relief that a blade may bring,— cutting myself more this time.
Once again, I beseech my thoughts to cling tightly, like
clothes delicately draped on a line.
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.

Open up your eyes and let the light pierce through,
casting away the darkness that clouds your vision
like a waterfall's cascade.

Take a deep look into the depths of my eyes; there,
you will witness the aftermath of my chaotic existence.
I have been smoking and screaming with such intensity
that my lungs ache, and the worn floors beneath me have become unwitting ashtrays.

So, I implore you, pry open those sealed caskets that hold your desires and dive headfirst into the realm of indebtedness.
Some seek solace in the grace of old friendships
and ask for new favors, for I, in turn, will search for a woman with captivating eyes and a well-endowed chest,
someone whose presence allows me to maintain focus
on four things at once, even after removing my glasses.

Roaches in the back of the toilet seat; a ****** life where every light is like a movie, but all they do is flick.
Not knowing how to shut your eyes away from the pain, so all you can do is blink,—While trying to get over all of your exes, but you always have to over think.
Posing for a Christmas picture, with a smile you only wear for certain people that season. While time bites away at all of your dreams, and death feels like a compliment when she's offering you her kisses.

Hiding all of your savings under a mattress, just so the rest of the world don't know what you have,—when you can't really bank on a bank, just to have a small account, accounting on all of the times you actually felt glad.
Dealing with your insecurities while trying to secure another dollar, living on the wisdom of a father, reading on His word
asking for the answers on how to make a honest dollar.
Tithing ties, just not choke up on your poverty, asking whether there's a better life for you in the future, "Lord there has to be"
Instilled with the fear of God, but you'd fear staying still, when rent is due, and you're twenty dollars short to fit the bill.
Trying to make a mountain out of your own weight, but you barely ate, praying for miracles but you forgot to pray for patience,— so you're feeling desperate while trying to wait. Praying for God's grace, more times you say your grace,
while everything else starts to look like *******, but you have
to stay thankful, so there's nothing to waste.

But I don't pray for guidance towards the next day,
I just pray tomorrow will always be a better day.

Till all the tears fall on the broken petals of time,
painting a somber picture of loss and longing,
it will be a beautiful tragedy meeting me at the end.
The sorrow felt by those left behind when death
inevitably comes is like a haunting silence that echoes
through the hearts of your loved ones, a symphony of grief.

However, when my own time comes to an end,
I hope that my eyes will close on the dreams
that fueled my passion and ignited the fire within me.
May my departure from this world serve as a poignant
reminder that a once known man, though perhaps overly
passive, can still leave behind a legacy that inspires
and resonates with others, even in his ill fit demise.

The darkness falls into my eyes like crushing
thunder and lightning, engulfing my soul
and leaving me in a state of despair.

It wraps its suffocating tendrils around my thoughts,
penetrating every inch of my being.
In the quiet of the night, when daylight fades,
depression takes hold, enveloping me in its relentless grip.

With each passing day, I find myself lost in a labyrinth of unanswered longing questions, each one a testament
to the depths of my internal struggle.

Yet, amidst the chaos, one question resounds
louder than the rest, resonating deep within me:
      when does it all end?

The hunger for success; we might as well scrape the bottom of the bowl,—And if we're all itching to be recognised, we might as well have a skin infection. Battling all of our demons, but its more of a battle to battle another temptation.

My mind and I are post mates, with these ideas we're trying to deliver to the world on the postal,
Still it might close us off, a world that's mostly your enemy, can't really escape it,—so we keep the enemy closer.
Always trying to sound like I've got some filling advice, with every word as food for thought, and the chip on my shoulder.
But their hungry eyes bite down more than they minds can swallow, then serve revenge back on a dish always colder.

But I guess I'm the fool for being so full on being foolish; you could give a world a hint of your love,—But it will always be a world living so clueless. As we all try to live a glass lifestyle, for
everyone to see how we're living.
Making such fragile homes for our children, glass walls for boundaries: please tell them not to throw stones around where we're living.
Still these are the prose to suppose; smelling the intentions of evil doers,— I'm on the nose,— Of acting like everything I do, is everything everybody knows. Making friends with the name sayers who never remember your name; trading thoughts and quotes to butter up people with this modern day barter trade.

The only relation we all have, is we all love to hate; negativity is what we feed on,— positivity is just a bit of salt we shake on top
of hate on this plate, so it easily goes down. And ten days of money going up, is the process of you having ten toes down. But we'll probably have to go around in a chaotic world, to finally feel renowned.

A throne of the dark roses, with thorns of blood that mercilessly pierced her fragile heart. She now sits upon the shattered remains of what was once love, consumed by an overwhelming feeling of pain and betrayal.
It is as if love itself has transformed into a crown of thorns, constantly piercing her mind with thoughts of those she once held dear.

The agony she endures can only be compared to the torment of a devil dressed in red, yet her sorrow runs even deeper, cloaked in the blackness of the night.

It is like she is haunted by whispers of death that fill the air, like a mournful lullaby whispered into the ear of her past lovers. Every step she takes weighs heavy upon those who have passed, as though her footfalls are a solemn procession towards a coffin.

And in that very place where you last found solace, your head resting peacefully, it now becomes the site of your final farewell, a place where love has bled out its last drop of comfort.

There's a story in my head, of a guy I'd like to call Joey. I don't know Joey that much, he's always been like a stranger. A stranger who happened to ask me to loan him a dollar. And somehow that meant we were now best friends,—and like all best friends, they start to invite you into every part of their life.

He invited me to his rehab sessions, those talks about his drug abuse. He invited me to his birthday party, a party of so few people. He invited me to get his haircut, which he desperately needed. He invited me to his first job interview, seeking moral support and encouragement.

As I reflected on everything that had transpired, I couldn't help but think, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He invited me to his celebration of working for a full year, knowing that he had struggled to maintain employment in the past. He invited me on his church searching journey, never pausing to inquire about my own beliefs or religious inclinations. He invited me to accompany him on his first date, although all I did was drop him off at the restaurant.

And still, I couldn't help but ponder, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He extended an invitation for me to join him in celebrating his first promotion after two years of hard work. He invited me to accompany him on his first business trip, assuming I would readily accept the idea of traveling with someone I barely knew. He even invited me to the hospital to bid farewell to his dying mother, whose battle with cancer had taken its toll. And of course, I was invited to attend her funeral, where I silently promised myself to remain strong and composed.

Amidst it all, I found myself repeating, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

He invited me over to share in his sorrow following the devastating break-up with the woman he loved, even though I couldn't fully empathize with his pain. He invited me back to his rehab sessions, sadly revealing that he had relapsed. He invited me to the hospital when a doctor called to inform me that he had attempted to take his own life. Upon his discharge, he invited me to his home, where I watched and supported him throughout his journey of recovery. And when he lost his job, he invited me out for drinks, though I wound up footing the bill.

Inevitably, I couldn't help but contemplate, "all of this because I loaned him a dollar."

Ultimately, he invited me to what would be his final event—his funeral. The demons that haunted him had ultimately taken hold, or so I was told. And there I stood, delivering his eulogy, my words resonating with genuine emotion and heartfelt sentiment.

I spoke of how I had unexpectedly become intertwined in this man's life—a relationship that began with two strangers. I recounted how I had been there for him in virtually every significant moment and milestone. And as a single tear escaped my eye, the overarching sentiment was clear: "I became a part of this stranger's life, all because I loaned him a dollar."

When the nameless man comes knocking at my door, to sell me dreams, I hope I'm not too busy spending my money on sleeping drugs at the corner store. God may misjudge me for saying prayers in such a poor taste,—but would he still feed me the mercy, of knowing I never really had the taste of freedom?

I never meant to distance myself from any reasoning. But I'm always the forgetful one; putting everything of everyone first in my plans,— I must of forgotten about myself again, along with what it meant to be Christian
I sang songs with the dogs, to worship any hand that fed me
well enough, to become so reliant on every man. I slept with every shadow that came with the promise of any brighter day.
But its just an old tale for another yesterday, that I'm chasing like
a relentless dog,— And by the bones in my closet, those skeletons look to be nothing more than the many meals I'd feast on.

But every dog has it's day, and if all dogs do go to Heaven, I must be a dog at the end of it's breath, hoping it's maker does hear it's barking prayer.

I'll be in my room comprehending my own life
In between the thoughts of my own dead mind
I'd still find it better to stay high on more life
And if I come up first, I know I'll just finish last
Being stagnant as a prayer of person who won't take a chance
Just to switch up on my own perspective, seeing the first
Shall be last, the last shall be first, I hope I finish like that

More on the latter-er
Even fools try to skip a few steps to Heaven
But we all have to climb the ladder,
Not on these false prophets, men not allowed in God's capital
But tell me what's your real stature, or does nothing really matter
Like you been facing your own battles, but really your just battered

The sin with laughter, a recipe for disaster
While the Devil has an appetite for destruction
You're too busy filling up his plate, serving him like
he was your master

You probably use the salt of your life just give his
bowl extra flavour
And would act surprised when God spits you out
Saying you lost your flavour
You'll probably be crying, claiming God must have his favourite
But what's the favour to a favourite, when we were all created
so different, assigned to a nation
Still you do yourself the favour of debating
Whether or not there's a heaven, whether or not your soul needs saving

We feel it more important to save ourselves on preserving a golden life
Trying to tick what's more important in life on trying to live on the spoils that spoil your mind
And at the end of your life you'll feel the regret of your rhetorical question
Of how there's no golden ticket to Heaven

In the realm beyond,
We shall discover a clearer reflection of our true selves,
Where every transgression will be laid bare,
Patiently awaiting our admission.

In the sculpture of time, as the days unfold like petals, the blades of grass sway gently in the passing wind, their whispers a soft melody that tickles the senses. As an observer of this magnificent tapestry, I find comfort in the depths of my being. With each blink of my eyes, I delve into the reflective ponds, exploring the profound recesses of my mind.

This existence, though sometimes shallow, is merely a vessel compared to the limitless nature of my soul. It knows no boundaries, no defined shape or weight. It is an essence that extends far beyond the limitations of this mortal body.

Yet, here I stand, firmly rooted in the present moment. Today, a precious gift intricately wrapped with lessons from the past, awaits me like a beautifully adorned box beneath a Christmas tree. As I carefully place it there, I can't help but hope that my future self will be filled with the same anticipation and excitement to unwrap this precious gift on that joyous day in the future. And regardless of the size of the box, I know that its contents hold immeasurable value and significance.

I feel like the most succulent pair of juicy ****,
with an overwhelming number of individuals
yearning to **** out so much from me.

As my days all feel so hard from the very
start of the day, it overwhelms me with a sense
of struggle and echoes the stiffness of a freshly
awakened morning wood that jolts me
to face the uphill battle.

Feeling a false protection in my eyes,
like a veil of distortion hiding the truth from me,
a sight of a broken ******, serving as a jarring
reminder of the potential consequences of careless actions.
And like it, I tend to snap, my emotions becoming
tense like an over-stretched rubber band, and my
inner self breaks and leaks, pouring out fragments
of vulnerability and raw emotions.

While feeling a little undesirable, a question of opinion
arises as to how some women may perceive
or react to a man's *******, questioning whether
it is a quirk that might be appreciated or
a source of discomfort and judgement.

As some people live their entire life kissing ***
and constantly seeking validation from others,
I find myself in a different predicament.
Instead of indulging in people-pleasing, I am tasked
with navigating the intricate dynamics of being
buried deep within the recesses of people's lives.

It often feels like I am serving as a constant
pillar of support, attempting to hold the weight
of their emotional baggage and countless demands.
In essence, I have become like a sturdy glass
*******,—fragile; tightly wedged into the figurative
structure of their existence.

              I could say for the moment, my life feels a bit ******!

A saint's prayer,
—silent, misheard, unspoken
the chaos of the world is too loud.

In these smitten eyes, a burning yearn blazes
like wildfires, engulfing all in its path,
mercilessly suffocating even the most simple exhale.
The intensity of this consuming desire is vividly
expressed through the haughty, yet innocent glare of her eyes,
which seem to whisper, "I can't breathe."

However, these kisses that were once seen as innocent
have now transformed into the fulfillment of a guilty pleasure.
As two hearts beat rapidly, racing in tandem,
their bodies pulsating with anticipation, they can't help
but feel the weight of the missed opportunities.
It beats against them, a reminder that this connection
could have sprouted sooner, had they not succumbed to the constraints of their own expectations.
Like a delicate flower in the hands of a late bloomer,
their love blossoms, fragile yet beautiful.

Caught in a spell of danger, these two lovers
find themselves immersed in a simmering *** of
conflicting emotions. Swirling in and out,
their feelings dance to a melody disrupted by
the intrusion of spoken words.
Yet, even in this chaotic symphony, their tongues
weave a dance of their own, seeking solace and connection.

Oh, how they yearn for these enchanting kisses
to last for eternity, to freeze time and preserve the magic they share.
If only such a sublime connection could endure forever,
like an eternal flame, burning relentlessly with the
passion that unites their souls.

As dusk fades away, I continue to tread
a path deeper through my darkest moments.
Battling the shadows that haunt me, it feels like
an era of hopelessness for all of us, a secret tragedy
that the world will soon discover.

Despite the eternal sunshine, darkness
often manages to steal my smile.

Walking alone on the loneliest journey,
even the shortest mile feels endless.
Yet, I refuse to let weariness unravel my spirit.
And if I hold onto my dreams tightly, I can keep
my head held high and embrace a brighter ray
of hope with each new endless dawn.

Oh my love, they don't know you as they should.
They don't know the depths of your struggles,
the battles fought and won in silence.

They are unaware of the countless hours you
have dedicated to self-improvement, pushing
yourself beyond limits, and never giving up.
Yet, despite their ignorance, they pass judgments
on you, labeling you as different, as if they possess
a superior knowledge.

But let's not forget, my love, that we inhabit
a world that thrives on the illusion of superiority,
where everyone believes they possess the ultimate wisdom.

No matter how hard you try,
you can't stop the rain pouring outside,
Just like you can't prevent the tears from
streaming out of your pretty eyes.
And I pray that the rain never ceases to fall
in between your thunderous thighs

It's the moistness of your beloved eyes that always
captivates me, the flavor your cherry that
first pinched my cheeks to my own surprise.
It wasn't just the peaches I wanted to savor,
but that initial taste that left me craving for another bite.

Your mesmerizing twirls ignite a whirlwind
of emotions within me, as if a tornado is brewing.
I find myself captivated by the thought of you,
eagerly awaiting the downpour of affection,
envisioning you through my eyes.
And oh, how could I ever erase the memory
of your touch, the sensation of your skin, and
those trembling lips that held my sights.

If I were to shower you with my love,
could you grasp onto it regardless of its size?
To have you lying beside me, as the mere
sight of you ignites something within me to rise.
I could become your towering mountain, while you
become my flowing river, forever by my side.

                 I hope you won't mind?