We were both smoking long blunts;
-having a much longer conversation
and she confessed a truth about self:

[Her hands had grown a fatigued touch,
too tired to touch the rest of itself
Her body a trade of secrets; constantly learning
all of the best places, to please herself.

And lastly, our eyes, both held history of
**** pictures- seeing each other with our naked
eyes; and of course, the many glares of knowing
how to please ourselves.

      Two lovers, who truly loved themselves.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.

Your kiss feels like a petal in a violent wind;
an edible desire on my florid cheeks- blushing in my
memory of you, incessantly playing out love and seduction;-
you threaten my eyes with longing.

Swimming in an ocean of your dreams;
her waters are so clear -every tear in her eyes reflects a
better version of me; as I see my love for you is so frail
-destined to fail from every touch of our running lips;-
chasing after love, its sweet venom killed me from the start.

Darling, our love was a short poem; written in black
-for we couldn’t see its predictable conclusion;
our love was a short poem;- short, brief and obscured.

I don’t miss her, being my girl- I just miss
the feeling of not being so in love with someone,
who doesn’t love you anymore.

                          Today I wrote her a black poem.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, falling
in love with its ghost- her absence haunts me still.
Steered by the afterimage of a crafty mindset;
a dramatic picture- its frame, filled with all pains;
their hurts written in unflinching paint.

Suddenly, I find myself hanging it all on a wall;
staring at it in a perfect dark, a dark work of
art- capable of still seeing it all.

Sometimes, its just her, him, them or it;
how I choose to see it, isn’t how well I express it.
Killing time, while battling a bipolar practice
of depression; that promised me just a subtle kiss-
but had embraced me in its dark aggression.

I kissed a night;-
that had promised to keep me warm inside, and
it was that very kiss that ****** all the life out of me.

///a bee you see;
does all for its queen-
my honey bee, my honey queen,
so sweet are your eyes; that I prize
a honey fortune to fight for;- a deathly sting.

Poems, sonnets, haikus, odes, songs, prose;
every one of them are trapped in a little black box—
a pen, the only key that unlocks my heart for everyone.

A box teeming with all my pains in it;
secrets or lies? There’s an eternity in that box- all my
verses are in it; some remain locked till the inevitable
death of another disregarded poet.

Oh, my little black box; filled with thoughts-
your love is less;- in an honest jest; laughing at most
of my secret ideas— ones far from their best, further less.
Writing something to forget as something less;
pieces I beget as children; I leave them so fatherless.

                                  Trapped in that little black box!

This obsolete word- love;
in its pathetic love passions; - a lover’s promise
to do better– is a sorrow for a morrow. Digging in
your heart to express jealous feelings- love has just caved
in; loving one from the very pits of their own darkness.
Love is beauty, but also promises probable harshness.

In the letter ‘L’-
is longing, but also many let downs.
‘O’ – openness to broad communication; also the
opportunity to opposing standards. The rest of the letters
are blurred- as to why you won’t see me express them well.

Of cos, one should be sentimental;
still the mental response of love- gives tears;
of a heart building up a great sentinel…

an old piece of paper;- rustic with words of verses to a
beautiful beginning with an awful end— a jealous pen,
towards poems that boldly write stanzas of love- starved,
drained, alone in the silence of a love life, a heart not to
beat for love- only to read about it again and again.

i am; a plain piece of paper- words, actions, desires…
all things searching, for a true love that only comes
much later. live a day, sleep over a dawn of love, and
departure a night crying about it, alone.

There’s a charming night; her air seductive,
her beauty blinding- she strives through pain; writes a
story with a dried-out pen; writing a poem with no lines.

She is the night; her skin is brown sugar, her eyes are
filled with black galloping horses, that defies any oblivion,
her lips are red as the blushing passion of youthfulness.

Her wrongs in my eyes are a pale memory;
she is a penny with its head and tail- whichever side she
falls on, her worth affords all of my attention.

Tonight, her touch is like a paintbrush on my skin;- she
tries to paint a new moon- reflecting her smile’s shine;
she’s a candle that pierces at the darkness, and light starts to
bleed out, filling the room with an echo of, ‘her’ and only ‘her.’

She’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal;
she’s a fatal misery- full of forgetfulness; the memory
of her I try to make stay. To live with her is a pain, without
her is a shame;- she’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal
—sadly, she is only, and remains just a dream.

We’ll bury more of the dead; -  
rather than burying the problem  
that caused their death,  

We prefer not to bury the hatchet;  
instead raise them up in arms—
yelling, “let’s all go to war”

Bent butterfly wings, a tepid moment;- waiting, craving,
as the yearning burns for the poet who lit a joint.
Burning so brightly was a passion, it burnt all night—
as like a taste of words, so forgotten in the lips of those
that I had kissed long before.

Still, it’s as dead as the scent of old gravestones- in
the blood of their veins, that feels like the suicidal
resting in pain. For I had buried my heart in a place,
-since life points out moments of feeling worthless,
my pen becomes pointless; - This poet is like a loner,
writing only for himself, like warmish water- that you
can only bare for a moment. Alas, I don’t deserve to be
called a poet; for right now that poet feels so hopeless.

               I can’t soar any higher; my wings are bent.

There is the time when life flourishes;-
and only but a second when it all vanishes
A winter loveless; makes itself cold – needless,
airless, so emotionless- for is the state of the heart
after sudden loss.

The loss of someone, the loss of love,
the loss of dreams, the loss of time, the loss of faith,
and tragically the loss of hope; - that loveless winter
embraces your mind in a heart’s grief.

You seem afraid, so afraid to break the silence;
still, you can hear your bones break in despair –
and oh despair, “you have choked me in my heart,
banished me - I feel your hand squeezing my trivial
heart made of a speck; sometimes it’s crystal or metal,
nonetheless, it all will break.”

Though suddenly, I snap awake - perhaps it was
just all a dream; - a fierce winter to recall.
It was more, for the somebody taking everything I love,
were my own hands, around the throat of everything
I held dear- all I thought I had lost.

A full stop to the end of something worthy of time; -
a spot in the crowd, as a fool stops by feeling unwanted
here and everywhere else; - Less important than everybody
else; who am I if not a man silent most of the time; - sadly,
and greatly; his greatest work never becomes sublime.

Oh, it’s a curse; - that their eyes other face to
meet, but forget so rapidly an honest verse.

Still- he braves another line, despite what feels
like another pointless lie; - Still, he writes!

…as a violin with no strings,
…an endless sleep without beautiful dreams,
…a courageous bird with no wings,
…a mortal passion that never wants to die; -
              Still, he writes!

I found a beautiful threshold of you
-lost somewhere, in one of my dreams
the very last of us both laughing, speaking love,
singing sweet nothings, being the best stanzas; -
these days it’s just callous lines, of a forgotten poem.

Roses on our bed;- final remarks
on it being an attractive grave;- as for us, being in
love is to be slaves, owned by chaotic emotions.
And under the blackness of your eyes— is a pain clear
as day; confess to yourself dear love; how you worshipped
forcefully laughing through your pain.

I had worshipped every tone of your laugh,
never knowing that it represented you feeling so
breathless, constantly down the wrong path- every day,
every minute you pretended to be okay- every hour I blindly
believed we were both okay.

Your presence right now;-
does truly matter, even if you feel for a moment,
all that you do doesn't seem to matter. With every
thread of your matter—the space you occupy-
is in its impactful reason, to matter.

///the sky is the limit;- don’t limit
your sights on how far you see yourself going;
a worthwhile could be hidden in a well kept
promise, as the curve lost in your smile, and
the sparkle in your eyes all captivate others
to keep on hoping.

Beneath the surface of everything that exists;-
I find myself one breath away from losing my sanity,
and not making another one, until I die. Continuously unsure if
I'll ever create something new before, my time is up;- living by
the inevitable ticking of time's clock.

I've been living on the outskirts, trapped within
the confines of my own mind, constructing dreams of the past
for those who still hold onto hope, hoping that what I do will
be cherished as something unique and irreplaceable, like a rare gem
amidst a sea of ordinary stones. But now, I find myself drowning in
a sea of thoughts, longing for a shore where I can find solace instead
of conforming to the world's constant demands with a forced "sure."

Sometimes, I feel like I exist beyond the boundaries
of this physical realm. I am dedicated to carrying the weight of
everything, as if it all rests solely on my shoulders. I commit myself
to helping others and loving those who have wronged me, without
any limitations.

Yet, I feel trapped by it all, still entangled within
the web of expectations. In the midst of it all, I must remember
that I have to go through this journey to understand why I am here.
I have tasted love, its sweetness fleeting and its bitterness lingering.
I feel somewhat used by this kind of love, but mostly, I am left feeling
confused;-  drained and perplexed, pondering the worth of
entwining myself in a web of a jealousy, masquerading as  
now being a mere companion. I have been betrayed by those
I loved the most, let down by my own family, as if they were
the last people, I expected to break my heart. Feeling the sharp
betrayal of a backstab is a crippling pain, but the anguish intensifies
when you see the perpetrator, carving that very scar.

I am amazed by the immense depth and breadth
of how a few months of disappointments can feel like a
year's worth of pain. I cannot possibly quantify the extent of
this excruciating experience, but I can count every tear shed along
the way. The first half of this year has presented an array of
challenges worthy of a lifetime.

Nevertheless, I remind myself that it is a journey,
that must be taken one day at a time, handling whatever
comes my way. It is difficult to always be happy, but I strive to
find moments that bring a smile to my face, conserving my energy
to heal from the tougher days instead of pretending that
everything is fine.

I'm less of a mathematician, but still counted
as a human who sometimes makes a bad decision.

As the eyes hunger for everything;- they also
betray me on a constant treason.

Misplacing most of my why's to sound a bit wise,
still that's no disguise;- to displaying true wisdom.

It is truly a strange irony;-
to ponder upon the behavior of a foolish dog,
daring enough to bite the hand that nourishes them,
Just as a bee daydreaming about stinging their queen.

Tell me what sort of dreamer,
would fairly detest even a fragment of a tranquil sleep,
As someone who yearns for the warmth of love and
affection, but hurriedly scorns its gentle embrace.

I do ponder the contradiction within,
a peacemaker who harbors an aversion to perfect silence;-
A baffling realization to witness, how swiftly one can
turn against the very source of provision and care,
—that which sustains them.

Yet we persistently turn our backs on our Creator...

These thoughts of you,
are like the smallest pebble to the grandest mountain,
everything holds a certain value, contributing to
the intricacies of this existence.

And there must have been
an unpleasant disturbance in my heart; as if a pebble
was thrown in my eye’s still waters- causing many ripples.

Oh, it’s perfectly strange;
not quickly recognizing your own tears
anymore;- some people do cry better in the rain.

If I could have a taste of everything,
I’ll probably die, before I dine—with a jaded smile;
Cos everything that you see, is really not worth the time.

Objects in the mirror,
aren’t so clear as they want to appear; trying to pretend
life isn’t so hard,- only disguises itself behind a facade.
While living an empty dream in a bottle;
sometimes I feel so trapped in that same bottle's charade.  
Forever thirsty for more of time; the flesh never truly satisfied,
and attempting to shed the past, with bones so long dried.

There’s question of
whether, all we really desire is truly attainable,
Some of it feels so unavailable; giving someone a whole universe,
for them to prefer some space. Even when there’s a lot of
relative justice- there are moments when I struggle to
connect with others, cos I don’t feel as relatable.

Where’s the point of
crying out your piece of mind, even when they claim
to call all of your actions, sharp sometimes?  
And do you see yourself clearly in a broken mirror
sometimes- with its shards piercing right in your eyes?
Cos if you can’t afford to take it all in, you’ll just cut
a moment short, with that broken piece of mind.

I got to find a piece of mind; -a fine piece of mind.
/// How fun to be so young, so dumb, so young
to bury a piece of time in an unthinking dream.
Lost myself inside a piece of an idea- right now
I don’t even know where to begin.

Trying to step into the next best thing; hope I don’t
overstep, hope I’m not overdressed – dying to suit
in, for everyone I’m trying to impress.

Press me out for my words; hoping I don’t cause
controversy, to be another story in the press.
Sometimes I find myself another kind of path,
—God, I hope that doesn’t mean that I digress.

Praying as a mess; message me a beginner’s guide
to confessing all of sin- feeling misplaced like a pencil
for a million words; drawing out words for a heavy
prayer to begin.

I’m trying to find that piece of mind
-a piece of mine; digging inside of my chest.

Extending what little time I have left; giving it a
good stretch— a stretcher. Living in my own skin as
an inconsiderate guest- looking for comforting words
when I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin,
when I feel so depressed. And would the gates of
heaven still remain open, if I wrote it an open letter?

I’m trying to find a piece of a never-ending mind,
but I’m forgetful so many times- so never mind.

The eve draws close,
endeavoring to tame my frights,
Yet the sun, a superior champion,
steals the limelight.

////It’s a subtle reminder;
a constantly temporary kind of repeat
—sometimes I cry myself to sleep,
and think to myself, “Hey, was it all
just another beautiful dream”

Procreate all of our conversations;  
to produce life in their endless longing words.

You, my beloved, hold a coveted title; as every time I speak
of you, my words are filled with a true and unyielding love,
that resounds ecstatically throughout any room.

For every conclusion of my speech, should leave
no doubt in your mind. Knowing without any hesitation
or reservation, that I love you – wholly, completely,
and unconditionally.

As we immerse ourselves in this ecstatic embrace,
calling upon the stars; hoping they too know our name
—they bear witness to our passion, twinkling with joy
as they watch us revel in the depths of our blissful affection.

And in their silent presence, we are reminded of
the vastness of the universe and the infinitesimal yet
profound impact of our love. We lie there, bathed in
the shimmering light of the stars, we cannot help
but plan for the future.

A subtle gaze into these mesmerizing brown eyes,
captivated by the intensity of the desire that burns within
them— these eyes are like two galaxies, vast and infinite,
in which I find myself happily swirling; as the joy of all
my dreams, are like a kiss that pulls me in deeper into orbit;
a celestial dance fueled by this magnetic connection to
achieve all that seemed so impossible.

The pull is irresistible, as I find myself helplessly drawn to
it, unable to resist the gravitational force of passions.
A moment of cosmic unity, I yearn for you with a fervor that
surpasses time and space. The past becomes insignificant, and
all that matters is the present, the unyielding longing for a
touch, an embrace of accomplishments, playing out in my
life’s celestial opera.

Wide eye tears; crying all the same
—for the ringing memory bells that call your name;
all of the kisses in French are in Notre Dame, that
had placed a thousand stars in my sight’s eyes.

The blaring drums to the sum of
a sound of love — it was loud, it was rough, disastrous,
distant, and sometimes so longing; but also so caring,
hopeful, understanding, peaceful, building, and close
to my heart in the simplest kind. Vanilla like, still it
was a taste so hard to explain.

For that I am truly grateful, even if it felt brief,
I did get my plateful. So until my next fill of what
I get to feel so familiar: I look forward to falling
in love again.

Tell me,
do you think about me  now, and then;
Do you think up the version of me from  
now, or then— either as a noun, or just  
as an afterwards friend?

I’d long sincerely to be misplaced under the
stars, basking in the ethereal glow of a night sky.
—ostensibly jubilant; as it mirrors the depth
and passion of a love once shared.

For in this beautiful space we’ve created
together; every moment becomes a
beloved memory, beautifully etched into
the fabric of space, time and my soul.

Perchance, I would have given
you the world; — that which I do not own,
still could I own the very space of your past
broken heart?

Tell me,
if I can make love to someone through my eyes;
Allowing me to truly witness and appreciate every
exquisite detail of them— my eyes would become
vessels, through which my adoration flows freely
for you.

Spray paint the canvas of the night sky;
the red reflections in my eyes,
silently swallows up a thought,
to save a piece of mind.

So in my waking dream, I navigate
this intricate minefield of love’s emotions,
that all become so probable,
after calling you mine.

Gorgeous Africa, my beautiful Queen
of a thousand unspoken dreams, whose essence
encapsulates the history and heartache of past struggles
—your tears of past, drown your face in drought,
mirroring the resilience and strength that lie
within your vast landscapes and diverse cultures.

Oh land, oh the lands of dusty colored grass,
presenting a canvas painted with stories as ancient
as time itself —the tale of you; a dossal woven with
the threads of triumphs and tribulations,
each chapter a testament to the enduring spirit
of a continent shaped by the ebb and flow of empires
rising and falling.

You, a child in my eyes, a precious gem awaiting
the embrace of nurturing hands and the light of
understanding —desperately needing to be cherished
and loved, your myriad voices and narratives
seeking to rise above the clamor of past
injustices and carved destinies.

Rise, my child, rise high and so mighty,
until your presence eclipses all doubts and shadows,
a beacon of hope and empowerment for all who call
your vast expanse home —lift her up, lift her up-
her people, a call to unity and support in the
collective journey towards a future shaped by
shared dreams and aspirations.

As she is mine, she is ours to cherish and protect,
a legacy that intertwines our fates and whispers of
a shared destiny waiting to be fulfilled
—lift her up, lift her up- her people, for in her
beauty and complexity, we find the reflection of
our shared humanity and interconnection.

Skinned emotions and ***** thoughts; we can be
careless as a dream —feeling a pinch of love, still  
pinch me if I’m dreaming.  

I glamour on compulsive needs; never satisfied by a  
wanting happiness; creasing a stone face, and waiting  
for the wrinkles of time, to smooth out my maturity.  

The flesh only learns what is important, when starved  
of all that is convenient; as the mind is an ****** *****,  
beautiful, wild, creative and charming—  
when trained well.  

Live by your flesh; you’ll die by it too, as it dines on you
Put no mind on the things that you do;
then pay  no mind to when people call you a fool.

I took that pill, and here were the symptoms:

In your eyes; I’d rather seem different, than distant—
still in the very distance, could you see me in a better light?

While coming to these unacquainted places;
meeting in between, hoping not to be as complacent.

As cutting ties, feels like cutting corners, still if I could
love someone only for a night, I’d adore the
memory of it, in that later morning.

A real tough pill to swallow.

Your eyes run up, chasing after your feelings— the softest echo  
of a heart, once feeling passionately in love, but only in secret.  
A storm of longing; calm beginnings soon roar thundering  
clapping opening and closing gates.  

The haste, becomes the menace of biting into a bullet;  
never knowing its taste. For any chance given, will later on  
pierce through you in secretive conclusions— another round,  
another round, for a scar so yawning, and a memory so tired  
of ruminating last nights.  

Your tears, are picturesque ashes; core flames that shriek
a pain  before a moment’s murmurs. While an after long
upshot,  distinguishes something oppressive, growing
out of your heart’s  flame— your cheeks raised red of blush;
unease in a fiery rose.

Wouldn’t you love to grow openly under the summer kisses  
that wash the earth in light; as for me, it seemed  
reminiscent of your former bright smile.  

You were once the joy forward looking to a better day;  
a ray after the rain. To reign supreme on their minds;
on  top of every thought of you, worn proudly as a crown.        
        The former is gone.  

The world nicked away that stem of your courageous,
precious, and outrageous company; during the wake
of you finding yourself
      _— you’re so restless now. _
What would distinguish your fiery beauty,
is extinguished; diminished,
          — buried by the earth.  

Still your enduring fiery beauty could feed greed  
into Hell’s gate. For even buried in tragedy;
you shall  ascend gladly to avenge those who hurt you,
in your triumph.

Beauty incarnate, blaring flames;
loudly as the spark of new love, illuminates the
world with its vibrant essence.
Feelings are ignited effortlessly, carelessly rising
like the bright glow of an orange flame,—blue desires
that sting with a burn of passionate words,
creating a fervent symphony of emotions.

Truly not enough about you is spoken about you,
for your essence transcends mere words, leaving me
tongue-tied and mesmerized.

The core of your beauty eludes description,
profoundly affecting my thoughts and senses.

For in your presence is a profound sense of calm,
a palpable peace that radiates love throughout the room,
enveloping all in its warmth. The silent yet profound gaze
of your eyes speaks volumes, embodying the depth
and wisdom, both truly remarkable; for you are WOMAN.

In the realm of my existence, joy dances
like a flame, flickering with resilience and grace.

Through storms and clear skies alike,
its glow remains unwavering, casting light
upon my journey and kindling a fire within my spirit.

This steadfast joy acts as a compass,
leading me through life's twists and turns,
teaching me that happiness is not a destination,
but a way of being, shaped by my actions and outlook.

Black mirror tears; crying in the dark—
reflecting on things about life, throughout late nights,
Buried talk with an assortment of people nowadays;
enduring their dead conversations; also texts feeling so late.

Overbearing much— bearing on regrets that weigh heavy
on a heart; a heart only heavy by weights you choose to carry.

So, do you carry on carrying that weight; the baggage
of your eyes, carries around judgments as more court cases.

“Just in case, I need some old evidence to prove
my worth,” you say, just in case.

Afterwards cracking that mirror in the dark—how do you
really see yourself any better, if you keep hiding in the dark?

My energy; do be spared of positive & negative charges,
as my eyes are polarized, amid lost feelings and wisdom gained.
A polaroid picture; as the sight of it, had to develop its
own film strip, of all my past memories.

Every thought plays out so carelessly, like a child
running in a candy store; the sweetest notion of a touch,
a heart smitten by the rush of an unforeseeable crush,
— crushed & pressed.

Yet; by the similar fashion of the pressure a lover gets,
when addressing their feelings; my own words feel overdressed;
as the formal appearance of a necktie and blazer.
Doing my best to suit the petition of love; it seems the attire
should have been a bulletproof vest, to protect my naked chest.

Still I’m liken to finding my actions uniform;
as an acquired fit, that mustn’t take all love the same.
But rather be consistent, and conforming to these set standards:
trust, openness, communication, boundaries & compromises.

For there is no greater selfish love, than the one, where one
party receives the fullest love; choosing not to let go of some.

It could prove wise, to avoid such matters of the heart;
for the heart is made of matter; the universal mass to be in love,
and how you treat love, does indeed affect the volume of set heart.

Skinny-dipping thoughts; the barest
form to say their dressed words
Body shots that taste so vacant,
for those working ceaselessly on themselves.

And to those opposed to their opposite of love;
with hateful manners on glass table tops,
Brushing off former charms of love, swept
under the rug; while after all the wettest kisses;
heartbreak tastes so sour, while everything else
requires a couple of mops.

For I had slipped into its fall, hoping for the
spring of emotions, but I crushed my crown;
feeling royally *******.

Twisted to one side; and a jab of sighs, for
taking the time for somebody’s love sickness
—must have been its favourite patient.

A heart can be stolen; a heart swollen, — it could be a crime  to love; and a love to be much bigger than you can handle That twists at every idea of thought; words to say fittingly,  knocking at your heart’s door; blindly searching for that handle.  

Love is blind; to not see the RED FLAGS  in the daylight,  its wild too; a creature parading ecstasies at night —a bat in hindsight; while batting an eye at every swing  of love you make. Sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss,  and feel like you’ve made another mistake.
  
When two lovers meet; I’m reminded of their love  being a piece of steak,— it could be tender, the feelings  too raw, or too tough to chew on the other’s words Whenever they get under your skin; don’t speak a reply in vain.  

For love is joy, love is bliss, love is curiously strange,  love can be hate, and more so bring you great pain What would the world be, if love never existed in the first place?

A guise into your eyes, — knowing what you’re thinking,
In your silence; they must hear what your heart means;
For love at times, makes you feel so awkward,
A mirage of smiles, feeling foreign on a gritty beard.
Also love at times, feels like two kids in love,
With not much time to kid around.

While the eyes of your mirror,
Reflect just a small piece of another,
Time loves to dance around in your eyes;
As maturity starkly chases after you,
Before you place your first foot
On that familiar battleground.

It was beauty alone, putting a heart on lock
At odds; putting out all of their fires,
Still a piece of them enjoyed the spark.
And they must have worked up every thought,
Each one of them, thinking about you,
Still maybe I, enjoyed that too
— Of your presence’s work of art.

Yet,

It would remain best to appreciate you as a friend,
Then despise you later on as someone
I claimed to have once loved.

I took a glimpse at an angel— so beautiful;
I took a gaze without giving it breath,
I couldn’t recall her name.

And oh, what a shame it was,
Not knowing what to speak, of an outwardly presence,
I relentlessly chased after an old dream,
Hoping for a hint of conclusion— a foreign illusion.

For in spirit and in truth, —
I watched the skies crack open; splitting wildly
My sights, between a longing & desire.

Desire: the great betrayer to an eye,
When what you see, isn’t what you get to own.
Owing to her gaze; upon such a beautiful architect,
But some time later, it all built up another phased regret.

Angels that leave you out of breath,
Whether passing out on their lap,
Or passing idly, on Death.
    Beauty, is all so terrifying.