Imposed by a scent of the back chatter,
behind the air of the hair tucked by your ear
once a soul that was merely an imposter
The intense pleasure continues on- waking up
to the sound of dawn; under the thinnest of clouds
thin as butter- as the sunlight spreads across
The edge of their world; as like two legs spread apart
with a promise of a night filled with wet love
Two lips are meeting in the yellow shivers, beneath
the huge gems of eyes, that hold out a jewelled pleasure

The two resting upon a bed made out of barley;
filled in intoxicating lines of brand-new sheets-
The smell of regret only shows as the rise of after cigarettes
The towers of greying tired eyes; numb under the tomb’s
excrete- the cold breathes of kissing with a cold heart,
lifts the fur of a lion’s haunches

***** buckled by the belt wrapped around one’s desire
at another attempt- it’s no stranger, then the grave on
the tongue of a perfectly dead conversation
And about then, he wonders how could he go back to
the past, once where they were just casual friends…

A man without a purpose,
perceives himself as a failure,
even in the gaze of those who don't see him.

His thoughts spiral, envisioning the
hope of light at the end of the tunnel,
only as a receding spark, like a distant star,
as he plunges deeper into a hole.

These are his thoughts when he’s alone –
this is NOT a poem!

To witness the entire world bathed in a single hue—  
I must have been battling for ages, confined to the realm
of purple through these battered, violet eyes. Yet, I found
myself dreaming—gently; amidst a sea of blossoms that
blanket the earth, soft carpets for my tender feet; the
fragrant embrace of lavender.  

So intoxicating was the scent that the deeper I ventured,  
the more it constricted my throat, stifled by the words  
I longed to voice. I wander through lavender dreams—
bewildered and lost; forever searching for a tangible end to
this reverie.  I leap, I tumble, I labour, and I cry out—  
carefully navigating the edges of reality, only to become
ensnared in a daydream.

But aren’t the lavenders as enchanting as her gaze; a girl I
yearned to love, though our time together was fleeting.

We never shared that vision of a wedding day adorned  
with lavender blooms, yet still, I hold onto the dream  
where I walk in dreams of lavender.

I often feel mistaken to the fact that I could be doing wrong a thousand times,
Simply because the fact I could be telling a thousand more lies.
Well truthfully speaking it felt so easy to get lost in something wrong,
Numbing myself in what my spirit tells me not to do.  Yet still doing it for so very long.

So anyway I woke up today pretty much same as I always have and sometimes will.
Though, shouldn't I be waking up to find new ways to put my troubles to rest and not let them  roam free to ****.

Troubled by so many many things.
What does my own future hold for me. Memories of how many times I've fallen in love yet they were all just so many flings.

But not the love for a living being,  rather the living desires of a lustful heart.
Obsessed with how their sweet taste breaks me and rips my spirit right apart.

Just a ticking time bomb, that I desperately need the codes to defuse.
If I could go back in time to guide my former self,  I would teach  you how to refuse.
But it's best not to live in such a distant different past, for I find hope in this today's counting.
Though I may have lost track of my own plot, I just simply need rerouting.

So reroute my mind,
So I may become to myself a much better kind.

Styrofoam around my heart; a cardboard box around it,
To pack away memories of love. Crustacean lips, for every after
Taste of kissing; once of fishing for the one- that illusive catch
Still with the selfish desire to claim someone as my own, alone-
A greed like cigarettes staining fingers; crying only to myself
But never counting those tears in the broken mirror, of a bathroom

As this hubris of a man, is quite humorous;- truly starved of direction;
Yielded in such a dishonest method. A chance of, “shooting your shot,”
A posing act of perhaps creating your own weapon to **** yourself
Parlour tricks, for the conformality of society- a human preference
At this point. These unspoken rules, carefully set down: find someone,
Get married, do your purpose to multiply, work diligently to maintain
Appearance/experience memories together; as from finding love as
One being single, to leave those you loved mournfully single;
As only those set apart, ironically get to die together. Oh, how
Wonderful would such a pension to love be- but not often given freely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I strangely want more.

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

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

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

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

In these realms where your gaze lingers, they lie still,
like moss upon ancient seats—what minds dare to welcome
the defeat of a heart, or a soul that invents sweetness?

As her gown unfurls, caressed by the winds of passion,
oh, the trance of a lover newly discovered! Their skins meld
into one, basking in the bliss of a honeymoon beneath the
tender glow of their first moons after their wedding night.

Does time not twist and turn, restless only for those
who toss and turn each night- restless; stranded on the wrong
side of rest? Yet, a new day must grace our faces with its luscious
cherry lips, refusing to relent in casting a foolish brightness
upon our kind, igniting our eyes with its relentless glow.

Oh, would you not yearn to be the lover of the sun; to reflect
its anguish through a pure, innocent light? Your form shrouded
by the gown of clouds, oh sweet beloved—what joy it is to behold
you as you truly are, unadorned this night!

there’s a garden in my chest – I pulled out a couple of
weeds, buried a handful of thorns, choked a sunflower
seed that was trying to grow. growing sick of watered-down
versions of love, my soul sneezed; cheeks squeezed to utter
those emotionless words from my lips,
                                      
                                                       “hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.”

don’t hug me for too long, just to suffocate my heart; then
look at me surprised when I tell you, “I think I’m in love.

don’t point me out so quickly as your man – I don’t
want to disappoint you.

don’t look into my eyes for the value of love; I’m also
still confirming the price.

don’t bother yourself giving me a cold shoulder, as a child
I enjoyed chewing on ice.

don’t force me to show you my love, my presence around
you will make sure it’s more than enough.

but…

do tell me constantly, “I love you” –
those three very words, I haven’t heard them enough.

"Let’s circle back,” said the square to a circle of friends –
a bit offensive, when you tell two skeletons to have
some skin in the game – that’s your own bone to pick.

But tell me, what’s a bed of roses without a sheet; the
two get tangled in the sheets when they’ve tied the knot.
But what really trips me up is, "falling head over heels,"
I’ve got two left feet, so how badly will this affect me?

Cliché much…

Yes, I do say – when I’m bit under the weather of a Perfect
storm; but even as the apple doesn't fall far from the tree,
someone picking out your own pride in your children, is
low-hanging fruit. And how long it takes you to understand
my humour; others would name the seconds it takes them to
get my jokes, in the Nick of time.

I’ve given these cliches their love.

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!

Lost in feelings like a child who has lost their mother’s hand in a clothing store. What can I cling to as life begins to wear me down? I feel out of place in this room, surrounded by a sea of people who adorn themselves in ways that garner admiration from others. My neck is slick with sweat; my eyes heavy with tears, burdened by the smoke swirling in my chest like a traveller stuck in customs.

The ultimate destination is, of course, my head, where thinking of myself in a future tense is so heavy on my brain. My lips start to tense, speaking of the past with a few old friends – I’ve aged too well, that those grappling with the youthful insecurities I once faced believe we’re age mates.

Still what’s looking for a mate: a joint occupant; though my joints ache a bit too much. A soulmate in the wake of these days, but what good is finding one if you don’t really have a soul. So lost in myself.

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?

Find for me a decent love that stirs a distant heart,
If I dare to love you, can I still remain the man I am—
the man you truly want?

Stitch me together with the stars; I shall fall deeper
in love, ready to fulfil every wish you want.
Adrift on the ocean, we’ll let time drown, washing
away the moments we’d share in this love.

Record my emotions like a demo tape,
tracking the melodies of my heart—
my mind, is a mere spark igniting the edge of a match,
checking the box to reveal the flame that yearns for
the love I too want.

            Want, want, want love... That is all I need, to want.

If Truth & Love are an object; I’m objective to that statement;
For the girl of my dreams — I’m maybe lucid dreaming,
Or just another hopeless insomniac; a hopeless romantic!

Dreamt up love stories – mostly are their unhappy endings;
Falling in love, while quietly hoping my feelings aren’t,
The only ones to catch me; it’s all going to be so tragic!

Falling too hard now — having no means to get up;
Having no pieces of a heart left, to cope with the feeling,
Of breaking up; knowing I’ll start to act so dramatic!

These are the insecurities of being in love;
It's so rough; the one I once loved became so traumatic!

Seasonal changes always come
to be,
As for every start there's an end
to it too.

All open doors are soon to be closed,
as we too close over the year.
Saying goodbye to all good, and bad it's brought,
whether to some, the bad was more
We still remember such times, if we're
ever willing to move forward.

Goodbye 2020,
to another year gone.
Like old winds blown away,
new ones come in newer seasons.
To be a different season,
despite us aware of what new winds bring our way.

Still like yesterday,
we've learnt to live more in today,
Always keeping our eyes onto tomorrow.
So our goodbyes to now,
becomes our hellos to what new follows.

And then,
like a tempest, emotions surged through my mind –
ah, I believe it could only be the work of a UFO,

And there she stood,
a tall figure, her fingers surprisingly short –
they nicknamed her Finn; a name laced with irony,
for she relishes the Adventure time in the depths
of my heart, soul, body, and mind.

And truly she’s a catch;
swimming so effortlessly, and gliding so gracefully
through the currents of my every thought…

                                                       ­     Finn the girl.

Pink sky; a blushing moon
by the compliments of dusk

By the sun—shown to be overbearing
shadows, chasing behind a tall stranger

The clouds have covered the sightseeing
tour of the journey to a questionable life

A bearing chest of emotions,
bare hairs, and without pride to speak

I feel the crawling sensation of a love sicken
child, under my skin.

You have given me peace from a piece of mind,
a piece of story we're yet to experience

Set opinions on my back, are the setbacks I have
on this love and its resilience

Wishy washy—soaked ideas of a love
I've written about on a Christmas wishlist

A letter in pink, a type of hoping for
good weather for the next day

                         .....perhaps whether I'll find the right love one day

The tumbling walls of being too proud,
the mix of different shades of white colours,
The snobbish voices of the common crowd.
They'll bash your crown, to be renowned.

They kissed my lips that bruised my tongue,
said scornful words, and sarcastic remarks.
But you care for them still—all out love.

They spat my name to call it dumb,
held out their chest to prove me clown.
But you care for them still—all out love.

How is it you see them as the children
you love, is so
Profound.

I was once-
swallowed by the sun;
that spat out a star,
That was shot into the ocean,
swimming a thousand miles...

By the shores-
of what was foreign land,
Different to their eyes,
of my dark bright skin, and
strangest ideas...

As when you're unique-
you'll walk a longer mile;
finding your way to fit in...

The proof;
is all under,
my feet.

Human nature: fault of our demise, ideas of peace we genocide;
Premediated suicide, as are the thoughts of killing myself for
The livelihood of someone younger living out their dreams

Peace isn’t cried out for, until the cries of war unhurriedly die out
To love one another, is to have something we all hate together
A hate so hot to hold onto, it could boil an egg in my hand
While the bags of my eyes carry a lot- in their sagging clouds
Before rain; tears in the eyes of man showing no mercy

Governments neglect you, hiring a river in the way of
Drowning sailors; strict kings, ruling over a collapsing sea
Men believing fortunes live with them, while moving their tents
In a desert’s empty heart, scorpions join in to sting your naked feet
Ruling the world; in the freshly turned soil- the Sweat of Humanity
Still man themselves, are as divided as that soil meeting its erosion
Mothers feet are wet, dripping prayers, crying for their lost sons
Fathers hide in secret places, to mourn over their widowed daughters

What is the idea of what they call, “peace,” while guns are the
Answer to their questions; as the devil quietly pulls the triggers
Our blood shouts out, slicked across the streets- crying for peace
But man takes it as an offence, uttered from a child’s lips.

Peace is irrelevant, rhetorical, paradoxical,
But when it comes to the griefs of war, peace is inevitable.

welcome to a bad religion
peers in pews of being a Sunday Christian
quoting common scripture;
commonly known as Bible bashing criticism
in an imperfect world criticizing you
for not being this perfect Christian

wishing Godspeed to those who rush
to that umbrella answer; "you don't pray enough"
living in the reigns of worship being entertainment for a heart
some blocking their ears from being cut by words
by a sermon so blunt

but how do you build strong character on soft words
and how could you test their foundation, without some force
as after you pray for patience; the devil loves to test
those desiring words, by a day feeling like the worst
still you forgot Jesus had spoken about woes

...doesn't it seem as far too see; modern Pharisees
we who speak about God, but do not love God
we who preach lively about God, but in with a dead heart
we who sacred a temple, but just because of their objects
we who teach a law, but not practising in turn those words
we who appear clean in public eyes, but so ***** in secret
we who act righteous, but hold onto a shaking hand with unrighteous
we who defend a reason not to ****, but ****** another in ill speak

...it's only a bad religion,
to us being such a bad representative

Behind the eyes of tv screens-
they’re busy watching us Netflix & chilling
Let’s binge on kisses until every show finds its end
show of hands if you’ve been searching for that
touch of love, that makes you fall in love again, and again…

Her eyes are like petals, that open up to me
as my words are the splash of love that helps her grow
She holds onto me like a dream you hope never to forget
inside my head, I imagine fulfilling her every wish that
requires a bed…

The emptiness: you’re so longing to leave behind the shadows
left behind your eyes; watching quietly all the things that start
to feel so summarized; building memories on every fibre
of your skin, like towers crashing down in their own defeat
as my eyes watch the young die younger, to feel a bit alive

“Do I see dead people,” be ahead of most people- “do I behead
people,” live a once lonely life, cos it comes with no sequel;
but depression, a subtle prequel- subtracting most successful
friends to feel equal. I fudged up: sugar butter, milk and cream,
but still don’t feel as sweet as enough

Been so hurt and wounded- “something I also know” Felt so
traumatized to act hospitalized- “something I also know”
Done so much good, to get bad in return- “something I also know”
Gave all your trust just to be damaged- “something I also know”
Tomorrow’s sun seems to bring you darkness- “something I also know” Been in the company of friends that betray you- “something I also know”

The loudness of depression silences you- “something I also know”
Had so much opportunity pass you- “something I also know”
Hanging around those feelings making you want to hang
yourself- “something I also know” Feeling all, you can watch is this
world’s poison, to want to poison yourself- “something I also know”
Tried to give another shot at life, to feel like you want to shoot
yourself- “something I also know” Please let me hear out the pain of
your story, rather than getting to hear your story while
attending your funeral- the pain you feel is a pain I also know

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!

In the grand overview:
a miniature universe encapsulated within a fly’s delicate wing,
entrapped flawlessly in a mesmerizing reverie.

Futile lips that have savored the nectar of a sweet existence,
envisaging the whispered endearments of love.

All amidst a flightless winter, detached from the embrace of summer,
swift moments of the paparazzi’s intrusive lens,
devoid of an escape from fleeting trends.

Lost in the footsteps of our predecessors,
bloodlines tainted with the stench of yesteryears’ socks,
corrupt law enforcers bending the straight lines of justice,
pastors reaping rewards from tithe—promoting slander,
bound by a constricting necktie.

A captivating visage, a trivial coin’s value,
not worth a penny for a fleeting thought,
over ephemeral regrets concerning “Instagram girls,”
no foundation upon which to establish standards,
a desolate heart, a tool appropriated by the most reprehensible,
urban heights in pursuit of an intoxicating sense of glamour.

As society’s vigilant eagle observes it all, soaring through the skies,
yet the sight of it all leaves one plagued by a sense of discomfort.

where are feelings aren’t involved – feels like we’ve evolved
backwards; undecided on whether we’ll do it for gain or the
appearance of love; this life lacks resolve. from a mortal heart,
is this strangely undying immorality – an act of all our sin being
washed off our backs, though pieces of it seeming much harder to
dissolve.

at this gravesite – would the flowers you bring for me often,
be the ones picked out of your heart; or just be a bunch of weeds
to pick on me one last time, where you washed my face with your
crocodile tears in my coffin.

would the angels and I be laughing – knowing that those who
spit on your grave will one day meet you again. you could still
water my grave in spit; I’ll still grow you pretty flowers.
they’ll hate you secretly, yet join you in saying Amen.

it’s okay… we pray for them often, to deal with the hate
they have towards themselves.

seem to forget all the places I’ve gone, still remember
all those I’ve loved – while our dreams still attract my
imagination; dressed in your night gown.

the breath of a lover’s skin still tingles even after she’s gone;
yet it would be the older version of me, teaching the young –
that even the ones with a bag of ***, still carry their baggage;
that even with a bag of tricks by your side, a better man will
make your best love, seem so average.

trading paint over our skins; just to paint a picture of a future;
a man finds joy in knowing he’s the present suitor – though if he
can’t dress the part of her life, please don’t shed tears when she
finds one that suits her.

but maybe I wrote this for all the losers – perhaps, “you sir”

so said the man looking at himself in that mirror. third wheeling
their love as a chauffeur. he once took the financial risk of finding
love. an entrepreneur – yes, “you sir”

           didn't plan to lose her, but hey there, Mr Loser.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

How funny is life, when I try to help all people,
but get accused of being called too nice. Acting a little mean,
then they say I don't care about human life.
I guess I'm supposed to be a bitter sweet spice?

I'm so useless, for people to use less for their appeals,
and often priceless; at a price less of being any real.
Life is just a biscuit, but unfortunately not everyone
has the cream. But here's a dream, lurking in a nightmare,
an omen in the eyes of the ungodly—the identity of a nobody,
and the somebody only with the right amount of money.

They tell me I'll be great; I only need to be a little patient,
I must of misheard them, I guess the meant "paid less."
I've gained a lot of lessons, to lessen my chances of not gaining
a few blessings. But explain to me why the teachings are so depressing?
A serpent in the sheets, are the scales of lovers nowadays; you pay for recognition, and ironically the obliviousness are getting paid. We all know that devils name, but plead cases as if hell is going to change.

Success is such a mountain, and failure an easy path.
Dreams are like a fountain, but the taste of reality gives it a laugh. You'll always be your past, searching for a future. And the present
in itself, is trying to avoid being the biggest loser.
Trying to be hopeful, in a life being  promiscuous—it's all
just a *** full.

You try to live for the moment; it's momentarily
as a distant picture losing focus. Life is an untitled moment.

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!

Mother earth, oh mother earth; may I cherish
these precious moments of such an outstanding woman
— in these delicate grains of sand slipping through an eye’s hourglass.
For all will pass by as quickly as the gentle whisper, but the love of a
mother is undying, in all its outspoken words in these countless days.

Even as time dances forward, I fervently hope
that through it all, my dearest mother, shall I always
remember your love, joy, and peace, withstanding the test
of these countless days.

Carelessly putting your smile on display, as the portrait
of constantly looking towards brighter days.
A mother’s radiant happiness, becomes the focal point,
brightening up even the darkest corners of these countless days.

For if I could express all the thankfulness, I have of you
each day, it would all be countless in these countless days.
Happy Mother’s Day.

A sick person rushes to feel well, yet
Ironically, "patient" they'll be –

Are you tired of the wait,
Or is it just your fate now, to find that
Patience is the way of life?
Sincerely, "patient" we'll be –

Funny so
how my accent changes around white people
and I wrinkle memories I have on worn out clothes
Funny so
the sound of life hasn't an echo
and my reading voice isn't a girl's
Funny so
I read subtitles over the loud sound
and can sing a song, but read lyrics like a poem
Funny so
music can easily move your feet
yet love's symphony—makes me scared to skip a beat
Funny so
how we can smile the brightest in the dark
also telling a crooked lie through straight teeth
Funny so
how every world eventually becomes small
every person you come across—cousins yet to know
Funny so
how we call girls for dimes
but call her gold-digger later on in life
Funny so
how she calls all men dogs
but always loves barking up the wrong tree
Funny so
how we weren't taught enough about the ******
now the baby mamas we want to condemn
Funny so
we say actions speak louder than words
yet our own actions contradict the Word
Funny so
I laugh while telling a ***** joke
but will look at you as a joke, for making a dry joke
Funny so
how you can never really quench the thirst
the same way you can't water down a harsh truth
Funny so
the wife can count her *******
while the husband makes it count to always be first
Funny so
how we all have a good start, but end so poor
just like I started this piece, and don't know how to end my poem

                                    Well ****—I guess that's the end of the joke.

Life is just the façade of plastic – plastic money; currency crafted
from synthetic dreams, one's plastic love; affections moulded in
artificial forms. Too much of the latter; a toxic one's greatest trait.

Plastic taste; threads of regret cling to my teeth – my palate’s
insides churns; the words of people made of plastic bullets; still
their weight hurts.

Gazes of a select few friends resemble patient crows, observing
the burdens you bear in a plastic bag of your baggage. A course of
those processed foods; processed natural flavours – sprinkle a little
more sugar to add weight to that plastic container.

“You don’t really match my flavour,” I wouldn’t know how it
really tastes – my heart; I’d love to give you a taste, but it’s often
filled with so much hate. And as I try not to break what holds my
food for thought; I keep my dreams on a plastic plate.

But even plastic breaks, just with the right weight.

So tell me, why are you trying to carry the weight of the world?

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.

Her: All men are nothing but dogs!

Him: Yes, indeed… but have you ever pondered the breed of each man? Some are fiercely loyal, others stand as protectors, a few are brash and aggressive, while some are merely oversized infants. You get the stubborn ones, the overly playful bunch, or grumpy ones. And then, there are those wretched few who tarnish our reputation, who just love to **** all over on your pristine carpet.

All men are indeed dogs, just depends on the one you got.

Tomorrow comes too soon — I am the taste of noon,
a mirror reflecting another's brilliance; I am just a moon.

In
A world that seeks to mould me into a mere tool, yet my
truest desire is to be a spoon, nourishing those who crave
love; those ensnared in a wicked life of their own doom
Still, all I aspire to achieve feels so insufficient,

For
Tomorrow comes too soon — I am the inquisitive shadow
lingering in a room. I've been transformed into a broom,
sweeping away many of my ideas— for all the countless
moments they appear in their eyes as something never close
to good

As
All the creativity I possess comes with the weight of having
so much to prove; I've stumbled many times, leaving me to
question the true fit of my shoes. Life wears me down by
day’s end, and the cycle begins anew.

Always
Tomorrow comes too soon.

Fellow men –
man to man,
once a boy to
another boy...

I beg you,
please make your
intentions clear...

For we all sleep at night –
and in that sense don’t
need more dreams
being sold to
our women

those are false dreams –

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 ******!

_

I’ve slipped into a realm of love, ensnared by
yet another crush— no wet floor signs in sight!
Overthinking, deep thinking; I am adrift in an
ocean of thoughts— no life jackets in sight!
I’ve been a jug of emotions, constantly pouring
out my heart— yet these days, I offer only a cup.

These eyes, are crafted from paper, with all these
drawn-out plans— crinkled, and crushed!
Cast aside like a forsaken heart, unguarded by the
walls I used to bring up— please, don’t bring up my
reluctance to divulge too much— not much to say!

Just pinch me to the starkness of reality; I have
been tickled by the allure of dreams too much.