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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then again...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       The truth with ourselves is absolute...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 I hope you won't mind?

I follow the path of your memory
like the imprints of lines etched on my arm
after a deep sleep. However, your presence
never rests within my thoughts.

I never met a true prophet who made a million,
And I never met a parent chill enough to never
displicine their children.

But I shouldn't make a profit off the millions
of grown adults, acting like their children.

I had Biscuits,
she was my favourite little puppy.
Cute, fluffy, and brown.
And as I think of her while she's gone
while pulling the trees of nature,
the feeling of despair really barks up the wrong tree.
            I really, really miss that dog.

I'm really just a biscuit,
—that tiny spare wheel we all hide
in the back of our cars.
My closest to a ride, or die companion,
still spinning fresh on my mind.
And the only thing I could confess to
about feeling really, truly tired.
        ****, I really, really miss that tyre.

I had a biscuit,
this time it was really a girl.
And of course it's wrong of me to say,
but for the modern audience, "she was my biscuit."
I used to hold her so tight; I still wonder how
she never once crushed into pieces in my arms.
I guess she was that strong, stronger that whatever
strength of pride I could carry her from.
    Heck, the only girl I really, really loved.

I do miss the biscuits with extra cream
in between, like a life with a few extra
sweet moments, so we could get a good lick from.

   But I never was that big of a fan of biscuits in the first place.

It feels so great to be so grate,
especially as one with a shredded mind.
As I read red is the new blue to all my blues,
but as someone who often knows his creativity
leaks out of their head, with a ****** nose.
I'd still like to split the bill of paying for
my own well being,— do check the cheque.

And I might as well pay extra for all my dues
for a lifetime of all my do's, and change all
my ideas on top of my head, like those new hairdos.
But to whoever stares too close into my eyes, you may
slip and fall with the stairs leading to my mind.
As I'm one more trip to trip over another misstep;
like another thing that will always disappoint you.
I guess there's a lesson in those pains, that I can't
even make fun of on this straight and narrow,— saying
no to diss a point.

But if I fail too much, I hope I don't miss that sign
before I sign my life away to depression,
A depression deep as the sea bottom you'll never really see,
and typing out it's Crushing feeling with a capital C.
You can credit me for having a wet eye; the tears of
each time life tears out another hopeful page from
the story of my life.

—Life, is really as great as what you hope you read,
but I'd never really know on the nose,
so please do check for yourself.

As there's no due time for your dreams,
unless we're considering death, as the Mistress
who has to do what she has to do.
I know there must be a stair case to heaven,
but right now I pray for strength to live through
this hell with people's many evil stares.
But I'll say it in advance, "so sorry to anyone,
I didn't mean to disappoint you, again"

I still hope you can read the sign from whatever I
write, before I sign it in my blood, sweat and tears.
But you don't seem to see much, when you're
drowning in your thoughts,—its like a sea, much
before you write out the letter C to your Carelessness.

Of course I'd sound like I care less
for any of the tears in anyone's eyes,
But is it wrong of me to say I'm tired, "but I'm too
young to be tired," and I guess I'd be too wrong to
want to tear out that expression out of your mind.

         But anyways that's the story of my life.

There's a love that resembles a foolish quest,
her thoughts constantly occupying my mind.
I'm breathless, yearning for passionate kisses,
wearing love's badges proudly on my chest.

I never fought for love, but fought to be adored,
and the sound of their lips reveals wickedness soon.
As fears and great expectations intertwine,
the walls crumble in this butterfly-filled belly,
an anticipation that surpasses all others.

And it's the curse of desire that keeps me trapped,
a twisting sensation when she's not by my side.

As I gaze into their eyes,
I am confronted with the undeniable truth
— the devil does exist.

It lurks within the depths of their souls,
casting a shadow over their every action.
Their eyes, once windows to their innermost thoughts
and emotions, now reveal a darkness
that sends shivers down my spine.

It is a chilling reminder that evil walks among us,
disguised in human form.

One man's will; another man's want,
We all shoot our words with an offensive gun,
And chase the time like cowards who run.
The chorus of life; we all sing her song,
Speaking of the past in a present tongue.
The future of one man; another man won't want,
The chorus of life unveiled; we all sing her song.

As the night falls, countless memories fade
away like shooting stars in the sky.
In my dreams, I often find myself wide awake,
surrounded by vibrant neon lights that dance
on the walls as the darkness creeps in.
Silently, I wait, longing to say goodbye to the
night and embrace the illusions of the day.

The energy of people sends shivers down my spine,
their unfamiliar eyes haunting my dreams until
we witness this entire world consumed by fire.
The resounding trumpets echo through my soul,
like the gates of heaven shaking on the brink of collapse.

In the realm of my thoughts, I sit amidst the
smoky trees, inhaling their pollution and igniting
the fires within me, prolonging the anticipation of love.
And with each new melody that reaches my ears,
I am reminded of the days that have slipped away.

They've labeled me a thief,
yet I've never stolen someone's heart.

Countless times, they've called me a fool,
but I can never claim to be a fool in love.

They've called me a pretty someone,
yet I often feel like a pretty mess.

I've only cheated once,
but life cheats me more than I deserve.

They've called me the spoiled child,
yet I still act like a child, a man who feels spoiled.

I've done my best to be on time,
yet I always feel so late for success.

And I've tried to maintain a strong drive,
but it feels like I'm being driven to insanity.

I am a stone that held a secret,
the echo of a love that was crushed,
And a heart shattered into a million pieces.

That stone skipped over the river of tears,
and carried the weight of sorrow and longing.
Each skip echoed the pain it witnessed,
resonating through the depths of existence.

This stone, forever marked by the power of love,
continues its journey, leaving ripples of
emotions in its wake.

As we stand here, foolishly waiting for
love to sweep us off our feet, we find ourselves
holding our breath in anticipation.

Every second feels like an eternity,
as we eagerly await the moment when love
will finally embrace us.

But alas, time moves on, and eventually,
we find ourselves drifting away,
unconscious to the world around us.

Tears streamed down his face
as he stood before the mirror,
as if it was the only moment he could
genuinely catch a glimpse of his true self.

You neglect me in the disregard
of being discarded to the side
Like an old, dusty Bible
—thus it testifies to how
I truly feel, as feeling less of yourself
brings more of the pain you're forced to bear.

I would pursue the fortunes to sustain ahead
of time, but it seems they all come with fame
I break down with every crack of the lens,
the glass conversation that amuses me with friends.
But the companions I would have cannot fill the void
I have for you.

Throughout a solitary night,
I recount those stories of our past
As if every ending doesn't surprise me,
but rather amuses me.

I just wonder if the echoes in my room,
are of me laughing at all our memories
Or if those memories are laughing at me..

In the realm of desires and fantasies,
I snapped a wishbone, unknowingly
unveiling a fragment of my own rib, confessing my love.
My heart, a disciplined prisoner, beats relentlessly,
confined within the walls of my chest.

Yet, do you ever truly ponder,
amidst the sea of foreign kisses,
the imprint you leave upon strangers' faces?
Love may be novel to each of us,
but its pain remains constant.

A symphony of seductive whispers,
your ****** essence captured by my naked eye.
Yearning to be alone in our clandestine chamber,
I cherish the fleeting moments that remain,
counting the seconds like a demon,
while your devilish smile lingers in my memory,
before every intoxicating kiss.

The celestial longing in your eyes,
grows distant with each touch of your fiery thighs.
Please, refrain from sitting upon my lap,
for it tempts me beyond reason,
threatening to drive me to more madness.
I battle incessantly against the desire
to declare this as our final encounter,
knowing deep within that its all a lie.