Oh bread crumbs;

The birds have eaten up my path
Their sky has swallowed up my past,
They love to quickly spit it all out

As I shared the deepest parts of myself
With people that held no trust, or love –
Now my past is all they speak about

Now that's foul.

The empty space in my head tries to dream again
When faith starts to be my friend again
Oh, I’m not the same – a careless friend

The empty space in my heart tries to love again
When the feeling of love can be felt again
Oh, I’m not the same – a heartless mate

The empty space in my hand tries to feel again
When I lost a touch with myself again
Oh, I’m not the same – a hopeless mess

These empty stars will find me once again –
As my body rests on these foreign lands
I love to sleep on this Island bed.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Greetings, O Death, why do you not approach? You are aware of my
depression, and we both recognize I’m such a mess; speaking from
my chest, while my heart is shielded by a metaphorical bulletproof
vest. I am shattered in this tomb-like gloom; those funeral regrets of
not having the power to decide if I’ll be dressed at my level of best.
The residue of sorrow clings to my breath, like coal dust – as every
train of thought rides the tracks of my morbid dreams of death.

But do you know the sound of pain – those around me seem so deaf,
even as I look like a piece of parched land; my eyes are a dry red -
I have no real tears left.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Hey there, can you hear me now? These words may seem utterly
absurd, yet I strive to have my voice heard, like a solitary soul lost
among the herd. But maybe a gun to the head can make me seem so
heard – you know I’m just so hurt. Your silence lingers, and in this
suffocating darkness, that once-bright flame of passion feels so burnt.
I find myself devoid of tears, breath, or any glimmer of hope, and
though I rarely swear, I feel as if I am under a curse.

Lately, my inner demons have become my closest equals; my friends
feel more like other people– and this is the hardest part of my life,
that death seems so simple.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

In the spaces between my breaths, there’s heavy pauses; as I give out
a lot of fake poses. Here I stand, at the intersection of my loneliness,
waiting for you, in hand – a bunch of roses. I’ve had to force myself to
accept these ungodly forces – trying to worship, even as I view my
existence as a sea full of war ships.

But maybe you shouldn’t call my line – when I’m hanging with
family, that have me feeling like hanging myself; it was a folly,
pretending to them that I was always fine.

Until we cross paths again someday. Bye!

Does a thick woman ever feel her patience wearing thin, while
her man wears a beard, ready to take her every mood by the chin?
He’s dating a girl named Erin, who hates it when he cuts his hair,
and runs errands. She made him ink a tattoo on his neck, declaring,
“property of Erin’s,” then she decided to shave her head, but she's
now wearing a wig— a real bold choice. While her man is plagued
by countless voices, but he himself, doesn’t have much of a voice.

She swiftly cleans up her act for the public eye – she's a minute maid,
with a juicy figure that could turn any man to pulp; and she’s also
self-made. And he’s like an empire of ants, bearing more than his
own weight. But he’s not much of a saint, his mischief thrives when
she’s far away, and it can never wait. He keeps a side piece as a
thought to chew on, always clearing off his plate.

They picture a relationship, but lack the means to truly relate –
just a ship; claiming they’re on the same boat; being each other’s
bait. “Plenty of fish in the sea,” but they leave hooks in one another,
after they hook up. Never pausing to Google for their worth; it’s right
there, just look up– to the writing on the wall. "We’re all crumbling
on each other"; if these walls could speak. As countless feet trample
on each other’s toes, in these crowded streets of Love, we seek.

Paved in toxicity – a toxic city, where toxic lovers inhale toxic fumes.
Easily fuming when being called out; the headlines of these daily
romances, all spell bad news.

Please,

don’t start to believe having a large circle of friends
is the closest thing to having a halo – not everyone
in your life is a holy person. But they love to dig up
something worthwhile out of you; leaving you only
as a holey person.

“I don’t really exist, and I know I don’t exist,”

so it says – being latent, until it’s been found.
Where I sometimes break down by the corner
of Writer's block; where the drive I had for
something, finds an abrupt stop.

In truth,

this Writer's block doesn't exist; it's just
a point of time, the writer needs to BREATHE.

You don’t know how to party;

this is the part where you admit that you only love me partly –
and this is why we’re feeling each other with no emotion. And for
the interest of love: you’re a bank that’s hardly open. Some days
you’re such are keeper, other times I’m your secret keeper – so dark,
so deep, the secrets that you keep; telling me how to taste all the
lies on your lips.

Burning me inside; dreaming of your fiery lips – there’s that filth
in driving my thoughts into you; taking ourselves to a gearing fifth.
You and I are both ******* up sometimes, like this world – where
man screws mother nature; treating her like a ****.

And that's why we’re not the love for each other; when the love
we have for one another, comes from a place of where we’re both
still trying to understand who we are to each other.

We forgot the part, where we're supposed to be lovers!

Right here, in between Heaven and Hell

right here, is the world – and some dream of owning the world, but
it already owns parts of your mind. And when someone asked me
when I wanted to die, I saw the hurt right in their eyes when I said,
"right now, would be fine."  Though it's been a while, since I’ve
thought about suicide – but even with all the maturity, some days
that glass of wine, doesn't feel so fine. The glass looks half empty;
probably because we first have to whine. Could life be like a girl, with
a big chest; do you still know how to say it with your chest? Calling
a ***** a *****; maybe I just need a love to find– digging it out my
heart for someone, just to call them mine.

But love isn't gold as much; it’s silver nowadays – where you come
second after the bad boy who first broke their heart. And that’s still if
it’s to your own best of luck; if they hadn’t gone through a bunch–
wanting your love now, only when you’re out of love. Or is it meant
to be out of luck – four letters to that word, “Love?” Where the match
you find, is like a fresh match striking the box – it has to go through a
few sparks! Maybe the complimenting four letter word is, “Loss;”
gaining the worth of something now, after the few times you had it
for a loss.

But I don’t know what I want, I’m just dealing with a lot!

Love is equal the letters of it being just Lust,

and it’s forbidding what it means to love you; and how it starts to
make me feel like a demon— love, you're my enduring possession.
All the parts of you, are where the memories of my touch reside,
inside! And I'm a knife of pride; cutting at my throat, every time I
have to swallow that disguise of an insecure man. We both find
security by the taste of our love; along with this key to your heart—
though I act as your prisoner, with no escape plan.

Knowing angels that fall in love; just windup falling out of heaven—
this atmosphere of what it takes to find the resolve to kiss you, fills
me with so much pressure. I don't want to love you just for pleasure, I
don't want to flip a coin of love to get too ahead of myself; calling you
my only treasure.

See when pride marries an extraordinary beauty, it all sits on a throne
you dare not to own — the evil that could be found in this love/lust, is
an evil that would even unsettle the Devil. And I'm not content on
missing out a spot in Heaven.

Our purest laughs are in our dreams —
Laughing lungs out, sounding a bit psychotic;
Who's there to judge how ugly they really sound?

Tell me,
what do you choose to live by –
Life’s script, or by Scripture?

Yesterday will always be yesterdays –
Today’s are just one day;
Every tomorrow is a day we’ll never know

These are all our Everyday’s.

She says,

"Open up your eyes to me," while we were on a blind date.
Some opinions come a bit late; early remarks are great —
And there’s a fearful much of men, of that phrase,
"oh, I'm late."

But I fear when she's running late for our date,
And secretly isn't coming anyway.

So my eyes remain shut; as from first interactions,
It looks for us, this thing isn’t going anywhere!

A girl can be a mean ***, with a mean ***,
But I don't mean ***, I mean, as in being
Mean, even when you're already an ***.

And also I could be mean too much,
Or maybe I could mean too much —
But it wouldn't mean that much,
To be mean, that much.

And I could be mean as such,
Really for any means as such —
In order for a means that has a such.

Even as this, seems to be a mean verse,
The question is, which one of course?

Ah lover,
as the sun hides it’s face behind a mountain,
the moon never rests in the day; keeping the sun company –
Your company is the warmth of covering my face in the valley
of your *****; the slow beats of your heart, rest my ear at night.

Ah lover,
upon your image is this brush against the canvas,
as the artist is swept by your smile, longing to paint out
The edges of its curve – where you inner joy is warm as the
nest filled with eggs, that are protected by their mother bird.

Ah lover,
I’ve been nestled by your comforting words to no end
you are the very creative moment of inspiration to come;
but what you do isn’t a play, but you could script a good scene –
As life is art; it’s an art to love, painted to remain, ah lover, my pen.

Fallen winds are scheming, as the biting cold was teething –
and in season, you could never forget the warmth of love,
when you’ve had that first feeling. But as your eyes start
to look like home, they gave me a welcome by the mat
at your door – where every kiss you, felt sunk deep
into your pores.

The result of a heart, is keeping score of how many times
it broke apart – criminals do fall in love, as they were
the ones who stole your heart. Warm in their innocence
as they court you with a smile; but when that love faces
a trial, don’t we start to judge our place in this love?

Your lips in their warmish water, now boils the joy out
of my smile – I’m a bit steamed when you bring your ex
around.

But I must have loved you as a vowel; even when
you became my X, I still love the pieces of U. And I
sometimes think about you more than I should; for
when we still love someone who doesn’t love you
back, don't we wonder sometimes Y?

A whole lot of lies swimming in a pond – ducking the truth; as I
threw a rock into the water, and it unfortunately croaked, to the
misery of those frogs. I watched as a young lady was kissing to
find her Prince charming; and I still don’t know if she ever
found him, because she had a frog in her throat.

Ah nature, with its crude nature – it laughs in the wind at night,
blowing branches as you try to sleep. And when crickets decide
to mate, is it the whole world that goes quiet as those insects?
And if it’s a game of love they play, I surely hope it isn’t ironically
like cricket – making a few runs of the person running on your
mind; while giving it all you can to have a ball with them. But
they only seem to bat an eyelid.

But aren’t you all sometimes hungry for love, like the sea that
hungers to conquer more land? Let’s erode these old cliffs, of our
own peaks, to be left with the bare essentials. And would you
mistake me as someone who falls in love with one’s essentials –
saying it with my chest; to bare one’s chest? Maybe my love isn’t
as wet, to water down those starved parts of your heart.
Darling, I’m just a small pond.

But wasn’t it a pond, where the Princess had found her love?

An itch of an inch – scratching to reach that place we once
walked; it was almost the measure of love; with elevating
conversations that led to a level of trust. Now wearing linen
divorce clothes, to separate the time that wore us down; as I
carried a smile in a frown; as we all plant a seed of respect we
have for others, hoping in due time it flourishes.

But trust me, winter is loveless – summer is the state of your
heart, where the sun still longs to shine even when it’s hidden
behind the clouds. Love is needless, to those who only respond
by the own feelings; looking for someone just to entertain them,
by only giving them a good feeling.

As all my bones break in despair; at the sound of the skeletons,
I must break in my closet – my soul shakes like the trees caught
in a storm; with electric branches. I’ve been struck down; made
to be someone with no passion, no meaning, or digression.
Passive-aggressive – only out of annoyance; for an inch of my
life, revolves around entertaining people who show pieces of
their true colours, and still expect me to act colourblind.

How they offend my sight!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An ode to Wisdom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you not free?

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

Shattered shields; these many lowered defences;
Over the plains of a threshold over my doom
In person I’m broken down, in spirit I am laughing,
Speaking, singing; losing most of the space in time,
And the pieces of my body and mind; tasting the
Spectacular taste of defeat, in a sepulchre of a void

To my past, I am a ghost haunting it in memories –
Screaming at my younger self; but no sound is heard
Holding onto old flames of love; there lies my handful
Eating at my skin, ripping and tearing, until ash is my hold

I was born from mud, in this world made of dust –
The tears of heaven wet my dry skin into being;
The heat of the sun gave the warmth of love, and lust
Here, under this moss I placed my thumb to crush my flower
I was born a love poem with no real idea on how to love,
So, I sit quietly and wait, waiting for another loss in love
To have been in love, to find love again, is to understand
Your heart’s love; maybe there’s too much love in it
To fully understand it all at once; all too strong to hold!

Some people seem more interested in looking
for someone’s attention – rather than finding
Genuine love.

As they aren't truly searching for a person to
be their person; but just a person to satisfy their
Own hungers.

The nemesis, genesis – as I’m naming the voices that echo
within me, the moment I drew my first breath. They love
to play presentence, they speak tainted truths in the limits
of my psyche; giving me their word before my sentencing.

They believe in foretelling my fate in my mind’s prison –
casting judgment with every utterance; can I compete
with these thoughts, will I finish their sentences?

Often, I find myself so imprisoned in my own mind –
yet the irony lies in the fact that the door stands open,
as we permit our thoughts to dominate with their own
rule, and goals of leaving us so, so broken.

My mind is a place I roam around with caution!

Tangled thoughts – I love
your beautiful strands of hair,
And not having them tangled in
my fingers, leaves me so stranded.

I can’t help these tangled thoughts;
thinking about your curls.

Summarised tone of speech – let me imagine
the heat of your touch like a fine cigarette;
Your picture in my mind is such a drag.

Open ears to your deceptive voice, callous lines
of ******* in your words; so pure in white lies.
To my tough skin, your deceptive voice will
touch me – not in softness, but piercing into my
Conscience; knowing that even the prettiest looking
flowers aren’t the bunch of friends to hangout with.

Liars have the sweetest smiles, the sourest kisses
after the impression of their love wears off –
Like chewing gum, sweet at the start, until that
taste of nothing chews you up.

From the liar's mouth is the war with themselves,
battling with which lie they’ll use this day.
Telling you that they care so much for you -
liars are the sweetest.

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
“you ought to open up more,” which opens
his worth to being diminished.

We only cry when the world is asleep, painting
smiles on our faces to render our outer walls
somewhat pleasing to your gaze.  

We fight private wars, striving to shield those
we love from the fallout – yet the scars we bear
are somehow unsightly in your view.

We’ll conform to your contradictions, offering
our utmost to project an image of strength for
the women, while our brothers are the only ones  
who truly understand our weaknesses.  

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
and it is only his fellow men who can truly
witness their tears.

I pressed my best tears against the door; it must have been me
slowly opening up to you — you probably took me as your pet,
waiting for the pat of comfort from your hand. I felt the glow of
your heart, resting my head on your chest, that felt like sunlight
cushions.

You asked me so softly, "what's so heavy on your mind, love,"
like a cat seduced by curiosity. Even as I tried to pretend that
everything was okay, it seemed wishful thinking inside of
Aladdin's cave — I caved, telling you, "I can't feel this very
familiar pit in my heart."

Like a fire lit in the dark, between us there's always been this
attractive spark— a man overthinks himself, when it comes to
admitting that he's fallen in love. The words don't slip out so
easily off the tongue; but they wrestle their way around the
closed mouth.

But I've always had my suspicions that you secretly knew;
reading the words in my eyes. And when you replied it back
to me with a smile; I laugh about it now, picturing how silly
we looked, when we both smiled stupid smiles.

Death is not a silent affair; the sobs of the living resonate above my
coffin. I ponder the manner of my demise, never the timing, for each
of our ends have their set dates. Is that the reason why we bring
flowers to the grave, to compliment the date?

When we close our eyes at night, I know a piece of us dies, as a
fragment of our essence fades, dreaming to survive into tomorrow.
Perhaps those who choose suicide are merely those who forget to
wake up again—lost and still trapped in the darkness, searching for
the light, yet some remain forever in the dark.

Death is not a silent affair; anyone's sudden death brings the sound
of tears.

my love hate relationship with chocolate –
cause I really love that it tastes so good,
but hate that there’s never enough, or the
need for me to be sharing it. and to such
a treat, we are slaves; when asked what I
need the most between sugar and life –
I need both.

as I endure the whispers of a late snack –
telling chocolate to meet me at midnight;
even when you tell me too much of it is
unhealthy, please let me love the pleasure,
and let me live with the possibility of having
a few less teeth.

it’s my favourite treat, that if you bought it
for me; I’d do a favour for you in a moment’s
heartbeat – as my heart beats for such a
chocolate feast; I can’t help this chocolate heat.

What kind of person would I be, to love you
even when I don't love all the parts of me...

Would I give you a sense of certainty
even when we don't look so certain to be?

It would be criminal to love me!

The seed in the ground is surrounded by dark –
Under the dark shadow where it’s born,
It waits in hope, every day, every hour
The flower that can only dream of what
It’s meant to be, still as a seed

And the day will come, where it’s hope
Isn’t so dark; for hope begins in the dark –
As you only value a spark when it clears out
The dark; there where life is; you can find
Hope in the most unlikely places

We bear in our eyes, struggles heavy in tears
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and years
Close to the edge of a breaking point
But once that beautiful hope finally comes out
Won’t you ask, “where have you been hiding”

Tears running down my face, chasing after the emotions it has to
express – while the flowers rest upon the gravestone of my heart;
I am a heavy sigh, the trembling echoes of regret; still, leave me a
love that I can never forget. As the stench of the night lingers beneath
the phases of the moon, I carry these different faces, depending on
my everchanging mood. And as dreams are summarized under your closed eyes – witnessing those visions come to life, feels like a
blessing in disguise.

There will always be those who care for us, as we’re surrounded by
those who stand around us with different shades of their masks.
Must I be aware of every whisper that tarnishes my name; the ill
spoken against me– for such knowledge breeds a sickness; for even
as pride reveals a man’s vulnerability, the desperate need to validate
oneself, shatters them to hopelessly try and find those fulfilling
pieces.

All the greatness of tomorrow lies in songs yet unwritten; as we
navigate a life of enforced discipline for life is beaten. For mercy
won’t exist unless we give it a reason to live. The love you hope to
receive is also the love you're willing to give. And how long, and
how we'll live, rests on all He permits.

The end of this Untitled Piece.

Cheaters smile the loudest, their lies are the sweetest, their misdeeds
are the quietest – lest it be the ones who get caught. Cheaters play
victim the proudest, their excuses are the longest, their faithfulness is
the shortest – they promise to change, but its short-change.

Cheaters can be the secret sexter; the guys with mistresses, the girls
with a current boyfriend, ready to reply to the other guy with a,
“yes sir,” then introducing them to you as just their friend.

Cheaters love to receive their flowers; being ready to sprout out
looking for more; so rich in wanting more from you – while their
attitude is so poor.

You can pour out your heart to a girl, just for her to spill tea with an
ex; you can listen to a guy pour out his love for you; while he's
hoping his glass of affections, earns him a night of ***.

And unfortunately as you make a deposit of your heart, waiting for
love to withdraw – others bank on the interest of seeing, you without
draws. Heavy is the crown of their ill thoughts; heavy are the lies
waiting in their jaws.

Cheaters happen to be those you thought you had known!

To be human is sometimes being fearful of the unknown—
in a world where malevolence walks among us, where some
are openly evil; yet the most terrifying are those who cloak
wickedness behind an unsuspecting face... those I fear the most!

The love you believe they hold for you is an unknown
The truths they profess to share is an unknown
The appreciation they have for you is an unknown
The value of your value to them is an unknown
The picture of a non-public character is an unknown

And if there are facets of your being, to those you say are close
to you, yet they feel unknown – you were never that close!

Fill the room temperature of my lungs with your kiss's breath –
room temperature wine; compared to your lipstick, and a fine silken
complimented red dress. My compliments to the night, two bodies
twinned into each other, close to the hip’s side. We started off a feast
of sides; you took a piece of my heart – served on a platter. And by
your worth, you must cry diamond tears that cut your face; I tasted
all of your scars.

In the dark, we kiss in the warmth of our love, that it grows a spark –
the elephant in the room; how could I ever forget what you always
meant to me! You split my lips; opening myself to you as I told you
the deeper parts of my story – we are at the same level of building
this close connection, waiting on this storey.

You murdered my soul; killing parts of my time just to spend it all
on you – piercing me into silence from my core; the cause of you
smothering me in the heat of love. Nay, I dropped onto my feet
galloping after your love, crying after it in a whinnying neigh.

I’m a horse in love.

The atmosphere surrounding us after our first kiss, felt so heavy —
Her energy is thick, her smile is as smooth as the finest silk,
The desire of her eyes burns me, peering deeply into my eyes.

I'm blind in love...

Yet, I still hope to see our future together —
I hoped as much, but that hope has become a past pleasure;
I still treasure those dear moments we shared: it was fun to smile,
A joy to love, and a dream being lost in that enchanting fantasy,
Of hoping patiently, someone could be your potential future wife.

I'm no longer blind in love...

For she helped me find a piece of myself, reshaping the rhythm —
Of my heart, to remind me that I never once lost its spark,
Oh, the joy of having loved, the sorrow of having lost;
But the greatest gain, was holding onto the feeling of love itself.

Thank you, for it was you who opened my eyes!

Tomorrow laughs at your strong belief’s certainty,
    of its arrival being a promise etched in stone.

Today holds a heavy sigh in a weary breath,
    by your indifference, to not value what you have.

While Yesterday just smiles, and boldly chuckles,
    at the endless attention you love to give her.

Heavy is the weapon that carries it’s victim’s blood –
Heavy is a ***** mind that eventually fills with mud;
Heavy are your eyes in a dream, like a sleeping prong,
Piercing your thoughts in the daylight; life lives short –
While the dreams we make of ourselves live long.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
Heavy is the crowd, hoping to see you down;
Heavy is the weight of love, to make your kids proud.

For by the blood of ourselves, the words of our tongue
Are the greatest weapons, to lift or bring others down,
Even as your dirtiest thoughts subtly attract so easily,
It comes from all being fully stained in our sin’s filth –
While your dreams are the length of your passions;
The measure you take to achieve them, lies in width.

Bearing the crown of responsibility; those below you,
Look you down, seeing your success without longevity.
Avoid the negativity, live in positivity, a life of wisdom,
Joy, & love – a legacy your young would be proud to be.

Forgotten traces of a pencil – I’ve been built
by words; public reputation is the means of
being good at your own public relations.
As love’s repetition is loving those you’ve
fallen in love with, off the pages of life rather
than the scripts of perfected fiction.

And to believe your love is perfect is to rival
God's – where you become your own judge;
biased as much, for the flesh desires to feed
only itself; the flesh isn’t the perfection of love.

For everyday of life is the day for all equal dogs,
moral or uncouth,  posterity rests its favour –
Still a dog must know not to bite the hand that
feeds it; as it seeks the hand’s favour – wouldn’t
we all like to find favour in the hands of our Creator,

What are dogs to their Creator?

Funny how it’s hard to explain the feeling of LOVE –
But easier explaining the loneliness; we don’t miss
As much, until we’re missing that familiar touch
Its not about the crush, it’s that rush – that hopeful
Romantics picture of them one day finding LOVE.

Where some are heart led, an ***** of compound LOVE–
In love sickness, we could be a lead compound, hoping
For the promise to treat such a disease; searching for LOVE
Is always easy said then done, and when we've gone
Through our hardships we say, “I’m so done with LOVE!”

But LOVE is never done with you, give it another round,
And you’ll start smiling that you’ve found the One
LOVE is a marathon of going round, and round, until
You can run this race of life with someone you truly,

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE - and their LOVE you want!

I went outside, and met a black queen that ruled over all of my
thoughts – hoping she wasn’t a bad dream. But she'd still love me
despite my arrogance; my pivoting thoughts that swing along my
many moods swings. Fair enough; she’d understand me better,
knowing I wasn’t treated fair enough, under the same sun that
makes her skin fair as much.

Still is there a woman of your dreams when you barely feel awake;
the grass is always greener from a distance, but your eyes can never
catch the green of their snakes. And whenever I tell a short girl
a good short joke, she looks at me to keep it brief – but if I said it in
short: a laugh from a girl, is a guy’s idea of knowing he can get a
taste of those lips. But wouldn’t we love to dream in sweet relief,
while I find it less attainable when someone has me losing sleep.

Please give me my peace that comes with my piece: a piece of mind,
a piece of spark to a piece of love. But when I met the queen, I never
thought it would come with love – but she never felt a spark, paying
no mind to me. We were just two strangers in town, walking on two
different paths, who happened to glance at each other, only once!

Cast forth a handful of these pro seeds;
a promise of potential – hoping the value of
them, proceeds the muck that clings to your spirit.
The filth of your mind you must strain per sieve;
being wise to carry a filter, for all the shadows that
your mind will perceive.

As I'm learning the art of resilience;
refusing to fret whenever life wears me down
– like a flower dressed by the whims of the seasons;
whether you like it out, life is full of these changes.
So gather a bouquet of flowers on top of your head,
to remind you of such a nature, and don them as
a regal crown.

Weeping oneself to sleep – by these muddy
tears, and their questions of worth.

As the relentless sands of time erode a soul;
it's all too simple to feel like grains of river sand,
drawn by the currents of life, and banking on your
dreams; yearning for our stream of tears to lead
us to a flood of many successes.

For in those moments, we are but the weeping
sandman’s tears, drifting into the embrace of our
dreams, lost in the wet lament of our tears –

One day, we shall master the art of swimming!