All that I have, isn't all that I wish to do.
Oh how the faithless are faithful to
being unfaithful.
As in turn; the ugliest truths are beautiful
to the ears of a true friend.
Oh how the rich have plenty to give. But what
more can they receive?
We value more; that we've slaved to pay;
but would treat differently, something for free.

All that I have, isn't all that I truly want.
Oh how the needs are so little to their wants.
And only in life's tribulations, do we then consider
all of our needs.
Oh how they know me for I, but not for me.
All that you have, others would want a piece.

All that we are, isn't all the words said to be.

I am all that I am;
is all of me.

I hate my poetry, straight after I write a poem,
shed tears whenever I read them in my head,
Cringe at old works, grinding my teeth at grammatical
errors. I shake in my nerves when I show someone
a piece. Feel like a failure, when their response is just,
"okay"

I roll my eyes at my basic rhymes, and hide myself inside
at unnecessary lines. I choke on my confidence
when I read out loud. My mind shuts on itself when
I can't express myself so well.

I grow envious of those who write better than me, and
sadly admiring greats, I can never come close to be.
I sigh at those making trends online, and awkwardly smile
for those who impress the entire crowd.

Some nights I hate to be a poet, and I know it.

Still none of these things will ever stop me from writing,
and all of those flaws, I proudly own them.
As in the moment; I love being known as one writing a
good enough poem.

Poetry brings all my insecurities, my fears and doubts.
But it also brings out all of my creativity, bravery, and emotions.

                          I love to write poetry. I love to be a poet.

Why cry behind a mountain? Because I'd love to fill it's valley rivers with my tears,
Why cry in your sleep? Because the pain of it quickly wakes me
up from that dream,
Why cry when you're happy? Because the smile doesn't show enough emotions,
Why cry in a corner? Because it's a tiny space for me to count my tears,
Why cry when no-one is watching? Because I can cry for as long as I want,
Why cry in a glass bottle? Because I've cried about spilled milk before,
Why cry in the silence. Because the sound of my emotions makes it feel real,
Why cry about the future? Because the present fills me with the feeling of weariness,
Why cry about love? Because it's so overwhelming to have, and to not have,
Why even write about crying? Because everyone cries. And yet I'm the fool asking myself these questions.

The answer is: I'm just reminding myself of all the best places,
and times to cry.

By the attraction of scent; my nose has been called,
Falling into the sweetest embrace,
Called into it's descent.
  
Conspicuous; truly is the word making up her face,
And beauty; heavy as the anchor of emotions she brings,
All that's seen, is her bare honesty,
Open to my eyes, as all of her is exposed.
            
I picked her as with a touch bitter sweet,
Quickly cut by her thorns.

As I recently learnt, of all her very worth,
All truly rooted to ground,
And down to Earth.

Red, as the cherry blossom of blushing cheeks,
Green, as the valleys watered by Heaven's tears,
Brown, in the grounds as smooth as my skin,
My favourite flower, is a Rose.

The poorest man would say he's rich in heart,
The richest man would say he's poor in spirit,
The happiest man does cry in secret,
The saddest face laughs when no-one is looking,
The patient man has no rush to death,
The busiest man hasn't got the time to drop and die,
The dreamer longs to fly so high,
The insomniac buries his head in the dirt of hopes.

So what of me, in the list?

I'm the poorest when it comes to being romantic; but rich
in my words of flirt. The richest of all my written love
poems; but the poorest in having a love to share them with.

I'm the happiest man when I cry myself to sleep in secret; and truly at my saddest when their eyes are no longer looking at me.

I'm patient on my morals, that keep me separate from death;
but at my stress, I rush into the thoughts of just dropping dead.

And I could dream a thousand times of wanting to fly; though
the insomnia of my creativity, is buried in deep thought.

All that you'd expect me to love, I'd surely hate. And so
I'm unknown to the actual truth of many peers. Who would know me by name, but never my real title.

I am Mr Untitled.

I

Love,
could be a streaming river of a constant flow of words.
My tongue tip speaks of many things (All could be so
refreshing)

Lessons are hidden to blind eyes of my river; why not
walk alongside it? Follow along the lessons that stretch
(You may learn)

This river, made of a thousand tears in my eyes. Draws
greatly, and a great sorrow. It tastes sweet, at times
tickling at your throat (To ease a thirst)

II

Like a tall and mighty mountain; and pieces of treasure
no eye has yet seen. My words that are untouched,
the bare minimum of being bare. This land feeds
all others before me and us (My love has great care)

On top of mountains, two rocks at a peak. All rests on them,
all that's made of my dreams. These dreams are always
placed so highly, hoping they're high enough to be seen by
a God.

III

This Valley of stories, of both past & present. The days of old
and soon the many days anew. Of a place I call God by so
many different names.

Mwari, Nkulunkulu, Jehovah, Jirah, King, Lord and Father.

And like God, I witnessed his beauty and glory,
And like God, my mouth spoke of his many creations;
And like God, I said: "it is good"

This valley is where I'm found.

Now your eyes,
are pretty as the ocean, and crying whenever
it makes you feel blue. A sad tragedy, something I
myself can be too.

Uttering no words,
but all to trying to speak our very hearts.
And what does it say; what all does it bare?
The hurts of passion; so bitter sweet of pain,
all with your heart in hand. All the emotions you
hold onto, dare I say: 'you hold onto a tragic past love?'

It was painted with faith;
but not of the colours it wants be,
It was painted with love;
but as for now, how much of it can I see?
All of the eyes stories I've seen, but of their mouths
that won't tell. Casting charms of luck; but the words
to their love they even can't spell.

The enchantment all of one's former delights,
no otherwise from others in your life. I've warned you
not to trick my heart. I don't do well with any kind of magic.
But oh how I'm in love with being so tragic.

Tragically in love with you.
The tragedy of us both being so tragic in our past loves.
We're the tragedy to love.

To my future wife...

How the present is the many moments, you and
I in our youth will cherish. But perhaps it's the future's
investment, we find so precious.

You and I haven't met, and we're all looking for
a lover of next. But why do you expect so much
from love, of that which we don't have? The tenderness
many will share to another; but what of us to tend
our own land. Do you understand; that all you
long to give, isn't as easy if it's not something you've once
received. How we live, are from lessons we've been taught
at birth, and kept to heart.

I wasn't taught how to truly love. As Love wasn't all I got.

I went out for the discovery of it, as a teen being lost. I've made
many mistakes, some that have given my character shape.
But often past mistakes, brings the present's shame.

As a lizard sheds their skins; I shed my skins of discomfort.
Vulnerable, and bare to the times I've almost lost it. (That being my love)
Beauty soon fades as with age. Some nights; the love
I give may not feel the same as yesterday's.

And I'm not one to often change; but I rather try and make it.
But why would I believe I can change one's self in the choice of
being in love with them.

"Oh I can change him/her,"
the phrase being said more than enough.

But this first letter points out the views of me, into the
views of you. And as I wrote this, the picture view of us,
being as one from two.

Sincerely;

Your future husband.

The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.

So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.

The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.

A Christ within me.

How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.

Freedom of will.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom to choose peace.

I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.

But there's a thirst on my tongue,  
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.

I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.

A thousand pictures in the window,
and I only long for the one picture of Him.

If you jumped out of Heaven, how far would you fall,
to go through this hell for love. How far would you go?
Having all of the questions, but less of the answers.
More of the hard lessons, than you got from classes.

And how you see the world, depends on the shade of your glasses. When everyone is a slave to their mind, the thoughts being their masters.

A pretty dancer, at night, you seem so free when
you are out of sight. Out of the minds of judgement's view,
the only time you can be you. They've haven't known us for as long, to say that it's true. That we all could walk the same mile in the same shoes.

But I have nothing to prove,
but maybe to myself. That I could be anything; not relienent
on wealth. To take care of me, I'll be taking care of my health. And I could do all these things if I said so, but this everyday I live, drives me close to losing my mental.

But I'm open to ideas, like this opening verse.
So if you have advice, on how to keep me away from being
at my worst. I'd appreciate if you could spare a couple caring words. At least open up, to my opening verse.

We're all living in worlds too small; strangers on the
streets, all our eyes surely met before. The crowd
seems so small, when everyone in it, you might have a chance
to know. Even if I kissed a thousand girls, it feels like I've had this taste before.

But I strangely want more.

My world isn't round, or flat. But a box with people, filled to the
max; of people you call fam. Everybody is an uncle, auntie, or
cousin. Stuck at those family gatherings; with the same old discussions.

"Tell your mother I said hie," the message that never makes it home. We don't take the time to get the clearer message,
when we're all playing broken telephone. We have too many
big problems, in worlds too small.

We want to know everything in our heads of worlds too small.
But when you done buying useless knowledge at the mall,
you could give me a call. Careful not to raise your voice, everyone is listening in worlds too small.

And it's never too hard to find yourself, in worlds too small.

I remember how they laughed at my name,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at my accent,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at me for crying too much,
but I understand now,

I remember how they laughed at me for being afraid of helicopters and planes, but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at my ideas,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at me for being too kind,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at my poetry,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at how I dressed,
but I understand now,

I remember how they laughed at my smile and ****** expressions, but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at how I walked,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at how I spoke to girls,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at my relationships,
but I understand,
I remember how they laughed at my successes,
but I understand now,
I remember how they laughed at my youth,
but I understand now,

From friends, to teachers, to family, and strangers;
they all laughed at me. But I understand now.

My only regret,
not being able to tell that younger me,
"they'll all laugh at you for being you. But you need to understand, you'll be the one laughing all about them. Let them laugh now, you'll always get the last laugh on them.

I need you to understand now."

And as she turned her hair, and ran the marathon of
make-up on her face, she glanced at me. "Aren't you going
to say, I look lovely today," she asked me .

"No," I boldly responded.
Tears started to fill her eyes, but I chose my next
words wisely. Forbidding her eyes a reason to cry.

"The phrase you speak of, is just too simple for me to say.
And being simple, you are not. So if you were to ask me how
you look like today; then this is what I have to say...

You look like a desire so unreal to me,
The calmness of love blowing in word's wind,
The strength of beauty rushing over me like the sea,
The spell of which enchanted me to your heart,
The nostalgia of my very first love scar,
The laughter of joy, to my sadness you heal,
The weakness to my step's; by their Achilles heel,
The eternity to all my favourite sweet dreams,
The first kiss of my morning, and the last of my night,
The end tunnel of light, never lost to my sight,
The shadow of pain, you're unashamed to show,
The willpower, and passion, not by actions performed,
The love of a lonely man, so possessive of it alone,
And all of that is not of today, but of everyday.

But if simple words are what you seek, let me put
your heart at peace. For these are the words you at first
wanted me to say. So for you my darling I'll tell you,
you look lovely today."

I should know how far beautiful I am,
but also be closest to the fact.

I am beauty in the words I speak,
I am beauty amongst beautiful people I meet,
I am beauty as the first to choose peace,
I am beauty to smile brighter when I'm weak,
I am beauty for it all resides in me,

I am beauty as a people of my land,
I am beauty as the many of ocean sands,
I am beauty for being proud of who I am,
I am beauty in the can't that I choose to can,

I am beauty of the moments I make,
I am beauty in the creations I shape,
I am beauty as I sleep and wake,
I am beauty for the many mercies and sake,
I am beauty because I see myself as great,

I am truly beautiful.

Diamonds that are forever; with love not being a treasure,
nowadays the news is all depressing. We seem so relatable
when we're talking about *** things.
7.6 billion people, and the whole world still feels a bit empty.

On the inside;

Where those battles are loud, when you're just a silent echo
in the large crowd. The ear to everything; but your own problem's sound. Out aloud, screaming in your head, what if today is the day I feel a little dead? I meant to say dared; into living this life. Living the lie of where you'll finally rest when you die.

Okay, that's depressing...

Let me try a better trade of thought. Butter the centre of my fill; to feel. No big deal! Weighing the bargains of too many dreams,
and all that's real.

But next line now.

I'll take my stand in this next stanza. Even though I have more questions than there are answers. Profiting from wisdom passed down in a bonanza. There's freedom in knowing who you are,
and being lost in that extravaganza.

I'm not working on myself; but rather working on my entire surrounding. In the wake of living, where a lot of things are so alarming. I can only live by one positive statement;

WE'RE ALL SO AWESOME

I don't make time for myself; making time for you,
be dead inside, when I die for you. Die for two, lie for you;
in the bed of death without the truth. The rain in the gutter,
pouring myself; but through a tight funnel. The end of a dark journey, at the other side of that tunnel. We don't believe enough; that we love each other.

I don't mean to be rude; but seem so crude. In the dullness of
yesterday's grey mood. It reigns on me, from above the rule of
thoughts; as ***** as the mud. Thinking of you; guilty of the pleasures. Holding my breath when we kiss, to fill my chest with pressure. Love isn't perfect, but with the lessons we get a little better.

So I had to write this letter...

The words in cursive; complimenting all your curves. The edges of the sword, piercing my heart. Your tongue is always so sharp. I seen a couple clouds shaped like hearts; pierced by the lightening at night. Which gave me a fright, of all the possibilities that might.

I stink of doubt, under the half bottle of cologne to impress your clout. The trends of love; on insta screens, telling me how to love. But why am I spilling my guts? Cause those deep feelings I have, just leaves me with enormous cuts.

Kumbaya; in the sarcastic unity we portray. Round the burning camp fire of love; hoping it burns into the day. The passion of *** after arguments. Leaving too many things in the air, just to face turbulence.

But let me stop right now, before I bleed out my pen. But what if there's more for me to write even after then? I hate that we failed as lovers, but are somehow drifting away as friends.

****! I did it again...

A mix between Adam, and Moses
would be the first man to walk through an ocean,
A Miss who knows all information;
can't be trusted for being misinformation.

A pen seal dropped on the floor;
gets picked up to be a pencil,
A high school dropout learning how to
smoke at school; is in high school.

The whether on the weather;
could be the forecast of doubt,
and this poem was so random,
I guess I'll just end it here.

Someone once told me;

"it's so magical to fall in love,"
And that they could never spell the words.
But love is also made up of a few tricks.
A disappearing act, when those lovey dovey
feelings don't last.

A play of hand, to lose touch of yourself,
A flip of the card asking,

"was this your love all along"
And with a flash of my wand; let's pretend all
those arguments are gone.

"Who cares whether you were right, and I
was wrong," pulling out the bunny out of the hat;
to play innocent.

Tell me where did it even come from?

But I don't hate love, just it's many magicians.
Painting a bad picture of love, to a blind eye.
The crowd awes and cheers, not noticing
what's truly behind. But I've seen behind the trick;
of love's bad side.

Still love is magical, I suppose to those
who can't see further, but just the dot on
the tip of their nose. But who really knows;
until you've been exposed to the feeling.
Where often morals go, and no remorse flows.

I guess that's what makes love so magical?

Searching for a lot of things...

Searching for a purpose; so I maybe
know where to go,
Searching for a best high; when
life is keeping me low,
Searching for the lows; when my highs
get out of control.

Searching for a lot of things...

Searching for a reason; to justify the answer,
Searching for my joy; to cure all my
depression's cancer,
Searching for my feet; to pretend that I'm
a perfect dancer.

Searching for a lot of things...

Searching for trouble; as innocent
as I am,
Searching for ***;  just to pretend I'm a
man.

But the search hurts, like words in
a script of a painful verse.

Life has rehearsed.

With the cameras always rolling,
the pains are always emerging,
Everything is so controlling,
and I might not know where I'm going.

All I know-
I'm always searching.

I guess...

I used to wish that I could die young;
but of late it's just been outdone,
As life is no fun. Gambling it all out with
no funds.

But what if I died young,
or whatever people considered young?

How tragic would be,
since that's been the reoccurring theme?
From burying adults and teens. These week
we're burying kids.

I guess...

I don't have any real tears; but just the eyes
of so many questions.
"If we're worth so much, why can't I cry
when those who die were so precious,"
my heart asks only in it's lonely confessions.

Would you hate me if I sigh,
when you tell me a loved one died?
Would you expect me to cry,
when I say, "oh, another death idly passing by,"
And would you expect me to have the words,
just for me to say, "oh, never mind."

I guess...

You'll probably think I'm a terrible guy.
But I'm sorry. I've just lost so much,
I don't think I've got the time to cry.
You can dig into my chest to find emotions,
but I wouldn't say they're all mine.

But why do I rhyme about death,
because the end words help me not focus
on somebody's last dying breath.

Yes,
that's not a good way to cope with death,
but I find it best. Than to be searching for
feelings that will overwhelm my chest.
But maybe I'm just a mess?

I guess...

On sixth day:
you made us after your likeness,
to go on to be fruitful and multiply,
The Images of worth;
of a great love's flamed fuel,
You paid for it all, for the weight of my sin.

Jesus held it all.

In the abundance of life,
Like a piece of art;
your love an ornament in my eyes.
You saw me as herald and royal,
even when I didn’t feel as much.

Bare of my heart; guiltless of my shame,
naked, being vulnerable into your love.
I have no cares of this world to sustain me,
I've been left empty by it,
though on it's rocky grounds; the righteous
aren't shaken.

And shall the taste of forever be spoken
from His lips,
His thoughts are not of my thoughts;
neither are our ways the same.
He surely rests high above both our thoughts
and our ways. But still on Earth;
he let’s the snows and rains of Heaven come
down to us.
All things bud and flourish.

Yielding seeds to the daily bread,
he has provided.
Never to let me go a night hungry;
for I’ve been given provisions of the day.

In joy; I am led to peace.
In love; His glory I seek.
In words; are blessings He speaks.
And in actions, the love of Jesus is seen in me.

He invites us all;
but only the few will accept the invitation.

The God of my all; in the little that I have,
The words of Salvation; in the promises you've made,
The light of my path; on the days that I walk,
The song of protection; in life’s destructive chorus,
The echo of light; for the brightest of days.

On shaky ground; His foundations are my steady,
In empty days; He’s the fullest to my mornings,
To what do I owe to be given such love?

Nothing! Of what good works can give,
But rather the praise and adoration I have for him.
Nothing! Of what seems impossible,
Will be too impossible for Him.
Nothing! Of what the enemy plans,
Can stand against in the wayside of Him.
Nothing! Of my constant worries,
Will stop the love of the Lord our King.

Nothing! Is impossible,
for nothing is as great as Him.

I see the stars of the night; in the days of your eyes,
The winds behind mountains; in the power of your voice,
The ways to wisdom, in the words you once spoke,
The songs of promise, in the desires you've now fulfilled,
The provisions of daily, in the bread you've provided.

I've longed for love; that this world can't provide,
Tasted of all it’s things; that are sour to my spirit,
And lived in the world; despite being it's visitor.

I'm not of this world; for I know this is true.
I'm not of this world; for I know of YOU.

As of my shepherd; I shall not want,
As of my green pastures; lead beside still waters,
As of my restoration; lead in paths of righteousness.

                                        He is my all, my Jesus Lord.

The turning dials of that old car radio,
Metallic, as the rubber coverings fell
off. What had once protected, lost by
the twisting of that radio's lifespan.

In a car, old as it's manufacturers who
are all dead,
Her strength is still strong on this long
journey to the bigger city.
I fiddle through that plastic box of old
cassette tapes. My finger picking out a
title to fill the radio's mouth. To fill it up with
so much music; that it's old speakers *****
out noise.

Choking the engine of the car's battery,
the lights on the gauges flicker,
And I pull over the side of the road,
it's dark outside and cold. Not of the night
but of the music's chords.

I'm alone.

Waiting for a stranger to stop by,
and jumpstart my car. But only a God,
could jumpstart my heart.
As I reminisce on what it felt like being in
love. A station I had once tuned into,
with all it's cheesy love songs. And their
catchy hooks.

I miss the sound of the music.

A small car pulls up beside me. Yellow
as the sunflower open to the sun.
Bright as a smile; of someone you're glad to
see. 'How long has it been,' you'd ask them.

The window went down;
as a girl with a smile greeted me only by a gaze.
'Do you need help stranger,' she asked.

'Help with a lot of things, I doubt you could
come up to. But you're welcome to try,' my
heart replied.

I nodded slightly, hoping this could be
a quick fix. The quickest way for me out
of a conversation.

But my car was dead.

The stranger offered me a ride to the next town,
to grab a mechanic. I reluctantly agreed.
And before I hopped in that box Sunny,
I had to grab my plastic case of cassettes.

She seemed keen on what contents I had
at hand. Insisting I put a tape inside her radio.
'Hey that's my favourite band,' she said.

I never smiled as real in that moment,
than I ever did before.
With so much in common, we fed our ears
on good music, with our similar tastes.
Making it to the next town, I gave my
thanks.

Not expecting much back.

'Here's my number. We should hang out sometime
to listen to some good music.
I'll trade you my number for a couple of tapes,'
she said.

She drove off leaving me with a smile,
a number, and a reason for them both. As I
wondered where next this story would go...

I'd love to tune into that.

Empty: as the word meaning a
glass bottle in Africa.

I'd have my fill;
to the brim of life's expectations.
Expected of the plenty from the very
little I have given.

Life is that empty,
as many are trying at their fill.
On the straight and narrow, of where
it sits.

Hoping it won't spill.

How tall do you measure your glass
view of life?
Fragile are the moments; tapping on
the taps of glass.

Hoping it won't crack.

This bottle is what I make of it's fill;
Am I overburdened, or overflowing,
with the cares of the world, or whether
the Holy Spirit?

A question, only with the answer from
within; and as I ask from Him.

Draw out all of your dreams;
the picture of it is much bigger than
it seems,
Could you give up that pen,
an addict to words that describe yourself?

Daily confessions; d on the words I'll
scribe;
Probably on the lines of a paper to my life,
burning the old ways of myself,
The pen being the lighter.

I drew a dream in pen;
to last me forever,
Coloured the edges in bold,
just to feed my desires of pleasure.

A pleasure to be brave enough to
hold onto a dream, than onto guilt,
hold onto my heart, than onto a grudge,
hold onto my spirit, than onto empty pieces.

Pen out the picture;
words can't describe. In the spirit of giving;
giving myself the joy of a pen's reason-

To keep writing; when the words are short,
To keep scheming; when it feels pointless thinking,
To keep at it; when you feel so hopeless.

A spirited writer only dies,
when they decide to give up the pen.

Leaving texts on unread,
the mistake of replying in your head,
those silly little comments I tend to ignore,
Wasting myself; with my eyes on the phone.

'Why don't you come out tonight,'
they'll ask you when you're broke.
I scrapped a couple dollars last month,
just to find myself drinking all alone at home.

The inner introvert in me.

Thinks it's a waste,
to drink all night with shots to the face.

The outer extrovert in me.

Wouldn't want to seem antisocial,
but would probably order a coke though.

Just to dilute as a heavy chaser,
chasing the nights; while racing away
from yesterday's problems.
We've all got them?

Right?

Or is it just me; sitting on the floor in my
room at night,
Questioning things about life.
Trying to keep focus in the chaos,
telling myself, 'humbleness is being quiet.'

I'm really shy.

To anything knew,
I instinctively know I won't like,
balancing the worries of life,
With the constant reminders of finding myself
a wife.

I'm not that old.

Only to those who point it out,
who've done more at my age,
'I was a year away from marriage,'
           someone once said.

'Well good for them,' you've learnt
your difference; but still expect our lives
to be the same.

But I guess for this night,
I'm the introvert doing in my head,
up late; writing poems on my bed,
Hoping one of them becomes a trend.

But just for tonight,
I'm battling the thoughts in my head.

Again!

Perfect!

is the world in someone else's head,
perfect would any be- only after
death.
still! we'd all love to pretend,
till we'll realize the truth when we ascend.

those who only know, have reached their end,
those who only know, know only in death.

Only they are-
Perfect!

soon,
all will outgrow fairy tales;
soon,
you'll lose a love; gladly for having something
to have once loved,
soon,
the music fades to the joys we once had,
and soon,
would my eyes dry to show I was once sad.

soon it would all be, but soon would never be-
soon enough.

i love you-
knowing more than I should;
more than myself would,
of all past loves— that I could,
      ...so what's more of me to prove,
            with only less of myself to lose?

i've tasted doom—
of heartbreak in it's gloom;
i've been swept by love— and broke it's broom,
      ...so what's more of me to prove,
            with only less of myself to lose?

do as you'd like to assume—
dress for the occasion; in fakest love's costumes,
it won't do you good— the sweet scent; dims of it's perfume,
      ...so what's more of me to prove,
            with only less of myself to lose.

for shall we gain—
all the sweetest nothing’s sooth;
be passionate of two youths,
go dancing in the rain— without shoes,
     ...i'll have nothing to prove, less to lose,
           but in truth.. i shall always have you.

Hitchhiking at night, caught a lift with
the sun. Riding around the many of stars.
The heavens close at hand, hell conspiring;
while the world was burning.

I must of been roaming around
Judgment Day. At the edge of oblivion;
wondering which place I should go.

Limbo it was; uncertain like the ghosts
of their incomplete dues.
Two extremes, of the crowded silence;
and emptiness of all their screams.

                   Was it only a dream?

While my eyes were still open;
but blinded in their tears.
Bare hands that hold onto the heaviest
of all my greatest sins.

Cold and paralysed; I came back to life.
Soon to return back to earth.

                        Oh what a trip!

I'm just a representation of expression, feeling
so unexpressed. The presentation; outlines me
as part of the Depressed.

A manifest; label me an outcast. In a commonplace;
so void of it's heart. Commonly known as the ones
not meant to last.

But I trumpet truths; indulging in those lost souls.
To voice the voiceless, speaking of their all.

All of your worth.

Trampled down by the world's self doubt, it tells
me; 'you can't and will fail to do.'
While I'm only trying to figure a lot of things out.

Casting out two ears; to be in an empty silence,
letting this world try it's all to speak.
Being part of a world's mountainous worries,
forcing any to they peak.

My past mistakes and all missteps, are senseless in
the troubles of all the days long gone.
Even when I had all the necessary preps.

Life wasn't painted to always make a lot of sense.

But let me voice all the depressed. To those now
gone silent; without their freedom to be expressed.

We're just all the Depressed.

Beauty:
of an eye has been intriguing,
As like a Rose:
in the artistry of all searching the hidden
meaning.

A gaze: to be glazed for me to blink,
sweetest red to sour cheeks,
Seeing into something so unique.

Yet try to pick out,
passion; it's then lost from heart,
I seem unable to love you without.

Truly I'm not as one willing,
like many love sicken fools:
To fall in love so easily.

Thorns are then to ***** my heart,
I'll shout and call for you,
Yet love won't hear me out.

So enough now said;
I may instead, rest on her {rose's bed.}
For as the sweetest of life;
still follows the saddest of deaths.

My tongue lowers; as nothing can be expressed,
the love has not many words.

As are the prideful
remarks on breast.

I fear for the words to say, aren't perfect
in the ceremonies of love's rite,

The strength of my words only decay. A burden
of mine to lose my might.

Eyes heavy upon this love,
Preyed onto by your glorious sight. Oh how my
silent love only knows wit,

Belonging to a shy man's lips.

We are like the trees: On great mountains; as trees making
sounds in these dying moments; of dying flowers.

I too have been axed down by cowards. Had I; any better
days of this life I left?
These leaves in the wind are whispering: 'Never forget;
of all the time I spent.'

This is what a cruel world makes of you; to have your kind
be by the few. Cruelty is man,
who can make any; a story of their old.

As they who rest their confidence on size; won't be missed.
Like us; no man wishes a death like this.

As they say: 'your offsprings will take your place,'
For what you should know, I'm like you;

Let me multiple, let my seeds find root.

some would pen words—
few pen poetic sceneries,
in the less of lines; are things
profoundly interesting.

Lest we wonder; who shall wonder for us, for with all
we know. We shall never know enough.

Lest we speak our mind; what more can we discuss,
speak of yourself. But also do have ears to hear.

Two unconstrained mouths; will heed nothing,
as are fools; in competition of being the most loud.

One paints a face with their spit; while making the other
a clown.

To the courters of love; pretending love is all lovely. You are
so hopelessly blind.

Behold love's beauty, she does bless your eye. Still often
a curse; to many who take her lightly.

Gain the most lessons; while still in your youth,
for what is a lesson, if you don't apply a use?

Still never pardon all mistakes because of youth;
rather live on honesty, and be well fed on truths.

The glass of my eye, has your face in view. A bed by nights;
scented in myrrh. Fresh in the kisses of love's two. Once in
chambers of conceived room. A fairest children blessed
of a spirited mother. Destined to love while in those mother's
womb.

In April; was it made to be your name. As the windows of my
eyes are on gaze. For your kiss of sweet lilies is greatest gain.
Oldest together; in the wrinkles of time

Eyes that would word a painter' creation. All the beauty
upon the ends of Earth. Framed; hanging on invisible
wires of worlds.

He has glazed my eyes, hanging still in life' chaos.
Looking to all that was done, through a window view of insight.
His words made planets, stars, moon, and sun. So delight
deep of his reverence.
            
Of a cunning hand of artistic art. Set apart to it's part.

This language of love—

how do I express it without the words...

where do I place it without the touch...

when do I show it without my eyes...  

what do I have without the heart...

who do I love without the reason...

and why do I fall in without the love?

                  My love language...

Masterpiece of a passion painted, a lady mistress of
her fairest dame; So gentle of heart, and a love
all to wish acquainted; In the trends of oldest fashion,

Of her bright eyes of angelic fire, gliding, whereupon
two stars are dancing; Man takes hand to a leading
guide; His soul and eyes stolen— As amazement was
what he found; For by God, you are His art piece created,

Yet so disturbing to my mind, as words to express have
me so defeated; Worthy it is, speaking of you, tastes like
treasure.

Where light is sun, moons shall pluck, foretelling
astronomy— Of the eyes set on luck; time has
become the many seasons of quality. All in the
brief moments that soon fall away— Like roaring
thunder to the ground. Only with the heavens predicting
all time, In her eyes filled of endless knowledge,
and it's wisdom brightest as constant stars.

Praying for the light to touch my mind— Resting
on my tongue. Oh Solomon's wisdom; of having
it echo through my heart. Granted to me on Earth,
I asked of you my God.

upon the foundation of love; on the
streets of all our lives,
paved in the many ways of expression,
our love given— is the time willing to be
spent.

       love=time: which both make up life.

to echo the sound of many, the sound of i;
of all the time, all possible things, and a hope
i hope never to die,
as the past like a dearest old friend, the echo of love,
fades as quickly as it once was made.
      ...but soon shall we all meet again.

My love is endless to loving plenty, for itself it does not show,
granted to love a penny. Possessions of man's ***** eyes,
Of their murderous hate— many schemes flesh has to conspire,

A change to thought, (I darest spare, lodged by Christ's
gentle love. I hope to know in the ends of prayer.)

Kind heartened I may prove, with gracious kind words,
As with wickedness stuck in mouths; as it's rotting tooth.
All that are wicked; too hide behind sweetest tongues, and
fairest smiles.

Vile, vile, vile. Oh how the world is so vile,
to us all living in denial. Greed has made them all blind.

Do you feel as young as you do— By the gazelle or doe,
passion dripping off lip's honey dew,
Behold all winters past— Flowers singing voices
of turtledoves, ripen the joys of my heart;

Arise to me, but come away— Sweet voice and a
lovely face, as I taste your name.
A banner over me, is your love, stirred up by desire,
I'd do any all for my— Oh beloved.

A reflection of loveliness, you spend tiny
seconds in the mirror,
Sparing not a hand of beauty's lend; to lend
cherished care,
From childish abuse twined in life's hair, your grace
does rush my eye,

In the many,
amongst the traffic of people, your sweetest self
could not deceive,

Yet...

As your nature calls to itself, to break
my heart (as you're to branch off, and leave.)
Your beauty is the tombstone, And I
sadly won't find my rest.

                                 ....I indeed loved a mistress.

Oh Life:
the occasion, that occasionally
  some leave the event too soon.

Oh Life:
the maze, searching for a way,
  yet dazed and confused.

With limited days, and how best to use.

Oh Life:
the pillow, looking for support and comfort,
  Often in the living, but mostly found
   when you're at rest.

Oh Life:
the boot, hard kicking your backside,
   trailing your baggage in the back.

With just the few luck you keep in a sack.

Oh Life:
isn't all that it seems.
  The closest you are to reality,
   pulls you away from your dreams.

Nine out of the ten times, you're a ten
of having the worst time.

Still,
you can't afford to waste time,
  even with the girls you call dimes.

No penny for thought; could ever
pay the intellect of a great mind.

But all can **** time.

Oh Life:
  is time, but never enough of it.  
  
Life is but the time you can make of it.
  Precious is life; but precious is time.

Spend both well.