~profits of prophets
lining riches; a queue to fill
their pockets

spear head spirit
not so sharp as a liars tongue
words a knife, and the loudest
cocky tones just a blaring empty gun

you shoot for fun,
fun to shoot shots if the target hit
the blowback becomes being denied
                        ~he'd call her *****

that's rich,
not to hold onto the fact of a reach
but of which you regret a miss
to have not gained a miss, and *****
wet kiss. Wet are the eyes of calling it quits
freeing mind from criminal advances—acquit

but I could sound a little preachy
on fruits of the spirit; quite peachy
joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness,
faithfulness, self-control

to say you know, or no to the subject matter
of my poem. must of been on the nose; you smelt
the suppose in this prose

and I suppose that makes this the end of my
random poem

Slippery conversation, just to slide into their DM's;
it's like tiptoeing on a seesaw, balancing the desire to initiate
a flirtatious exchange while maintaining a careful distance.
And yet, there's an itch of curiosity in our fingertips, wondering
if their summer eyes hold the warmth that can melt away our
winter hearts. It's that morning look they give, an invitation to
dance in the sun-kissed moments that follow the sunrise.

Calling me like I owe you something, as if the world were a
collection of IOUs waiting to be redeemed. It's as if you're calling
in favors in an attempt to earn love, unaware that love cannot be
bought or borrowed. Love is a delicate, genuine connection that
isn't measured by material debts, but by the authenticity of
emotions shared.

There's a certain beauty in the sight of lovers holding onto each
other till the end, their love intertwining like the perfect fit of a glove.
It's in those moments of subtle touches and gentle caresses that we witness the power of love's embrace. It's a symbol of unity
and tenderness, reminding us that love, at its core, is about
supporting and cherishing one another.

To truly embrace life and love, we must find our groove, our
own unique rhythm that resonates with our soul. It's in this
harmony that we experience the true essence of being free, like
the wind blowing through our hair with untamed bliss.
Time, like an ephemeral gust, sweeps past us, reminding us that it
treats us all equally. So let us seize the precious moments,
cherishing every second as a gift to be treasured.

a butterfly that would represent
my suicide; is the butterfly effect
that will affect so many people in my life.

🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋

In his room-
making inventory;


Asking himself,

         Why does lonely
            want to rhyme;
                    With *****?

Searching through-
all his contacts;
asking about,
       "Why won't you call me"

           Seeming so needy;
              giving him a sore knee.

Twiddling thumbs,
my unresting nerves,
and obsession with
concern;

Sigh,
with shoulders high,
I'm so anxious in living,
this unpleasant life.

You tripping like you've overstepped,
Falling way too much like you've overslept.
Moved into my emotions, but don't know what state I'm in.
Played on what was the best side but don't know the team I'm in.

Could they push you to the edge
When you live right by the ledge?

Geared for life but don't take days in reverse
Be as you are like different days try to be diverse

Hate holds the hand but still not felt,
Keep a lot of my own will beneath the belt.

The many firewalls of my Heart for a corrupt world.
Still more cracks peeping through. Spinning in my head, I'm pretty swirled.

O'Lord, what's this situation a world's got me in.
Trying to swim out of it's depths but I'm acting like a fish with a missing fin.

Be lost, waiting to be found.
Be down and out before I hit the ground.

Give me a sense of hope in such a senseless world in it's own manner.
For an upcoming year I'd ask of where I stand, under which banner?

Make sense of this,
Make ways through this.

As we wake up every day, not really the same as yesterday and the days before,
As a man do we think we have everything or are we still wishing for a little bit more.
For some of us we have a family, children and grandchildren alike.
Well others are the signal ones, kissing all the girls on their cool motorbike.

But understand the fact we do cry when we're hurt.
Often we try to hide it, but Lord knows that never really worked.

Still I dream of us standing strong for those we love and protect.
We've had our many flaws, but those are just old memories we just live to forget.

So really what is it to be a real man.
Is it trying to act all cool and calm,  always having the right plan.
No,  it's just being what the Father up there made us to truly be.
To be the Father's of our house's,  the men to be the great eyes to watch and protect all the beautiful things we see.
So be as you are, the way you were surely made.
Can you not be a hero for someone else, for your soul was also saved.

Man....

I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul—

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!

All that I have, isn't all that
the world let's me give
And all that I hope to do
won't be for everyone to believe
But out of the overflow of my
love, I know I'll always have a
lot to give.

The egotistic, unrealistic quotes of thinking about bars,
With the obvious prison of your caged mind.
It’s a force enforcing me to rhyme at every line
So it makes every write a question of, what rhymes are left,
And which rhyme of the bunch seems right to align
It gets so out of hand; out of control, to seem like a lyrical man
But lyrically— I don’t follow a plan, or a rhyme scheme
As random as a Tuesday dream. We don’t get to choose what we see
No scripted story, to detail life’s most critical scenes
No make believe, of the way we live. As in the ways to stay alive,
Is to survive in life’s performance; that’s always live
I’m cursed to rhyme

Growing kids, calling each other “bra”
A mark of the memory on the back. Our favourite line in strap
Of really how we loved to rap(talk)
As keen as a king, to ***** people off royally
A bald man could say it boldly in bold—of all the lies he sold
But I doubt he’d have a heir; and that’s not so fair
But of the lies he sold; comes it’s fare
And that’s just a small example of the chaos inside
Inside my mind; a few seconds of exercise to stand the test of time
I’m cursed to rhyme

Hey there Mr Rhythm; I’ll introduce you to Miss Flow
Marrying the two, but don’t diss their force
As to reach the terms of getting them to divorce
One is a gulf of words; finding the best stroke in her golf course
For I know enough words…no never mind
There has to be a better rhyme to find, as I’m cursed to rhyme

The fourth stanza—a search for an answer
As only the few of my hand had of some. I’m quite handsome
The sensitive guy, who loves to write, and all and all
Always cursed to rhyme

Or be it so- I was lost in your eyes grand gardens
taking done a couple fieldnotes; be it a couple ideas
of me imagining ourselves as couple of old love notes

Being cherished love letters, timeless and tender
under the glow of city lights, even when your lips
appear slightly troubled, envious of the brilliance that
surrounds you

I’ve come to take note of my love phases, needing to
be rephrased- finding a new means of expressing my
feelings to someone so new in my life

Sweetheart, let your heart be an open book, and I will
be the unique tale that unfolds just for you, revealing
every chapter of my essence.

With these hands of I what would be the worth of my sweat
The many things I would of done and not, would be closely in the fears of only my regret.

Yet with such these hands what towers do I Build
Collapsing on itself. To clear new ground but on such an already empty field.

And as children would play amongst in the carnage, as to they a Play Ground
I held onto their joyful laughter to increase mine. Though would my own Mother be that of I so proud.

But with such hands I find myself to quick to hold onto to sadness that it bruises my fingers
Instead to build a future for my own, I would have aimlessly build hope in empty figures.


So for a man of I, shall I honestly use such of my hands wisely in the views of my eyes.
Though not to be caught up in the storm of these clouds of Grey Lies.

For with such these hands of I.

Our lives are made by the corner;
there's a few ballsy ones with ***** intentions
And I tell all of those kids to wipe the dust
off their nuts, and stop doing too much

The chances of not remembering a night are alarming,
leaving behind a void in the memory that can be quite unsettling. Sometimes, in the darkest moments, we become our own worst enemies, constantly battling with overwhelming emotions and an overwhelming urge to cry, even wishing for an escape from this overwhelming pain.

These feelings can intensify to the point that we find ourselves lingering on the edge, contemplating the unthinkable.

It's during these dark moments that we may find ourselves crafting an unsent suicide note, a testament to the despair and longing for release.
In a surreal twist, it can be disheartening to realize that the absence of a simple Wi-Fi code becomes the barrier between us and expressing our profound pain.

It's not that we're not willing to make an effort
to break free from the turmoil.
In fact, there are times when we muster the courage
to push forward, willing to endure the agony
for just a little longer.

The pressure we feel can reach a boiling point, as if we're seated
on a hot seat, where our entire existence teeters on the brink.
The weight of our entire life bears down on us, the uncertainty of our journey amplified by not truly knowing where we originated from.
Our confusion adds to the complexity, raising questions about our purpose and destination.

In the grand scheme of things, it becomes abundantly clear
that our path forward remains unknown.
Without a firm grasp on our origins, it becomes even more challenging to navigate the ambiguity of life's direction.
Despite this uncertainty, we continue to search for meaning,
hoping to find solace and purpose in the chaos that surrounds us.

Confidence in check,
well I'm at least to expect,
To give those around a piece of my best.

But how so? I'm a piece of depressed.
Bleeding out my heart, and beating out my chest.

It's been too long, since I've had a word,
a little hint in the letters I pen.
But then again,
I'm completely clucked as like a hen. Hanging with the lions in the depths of a den.

Still confidence in check,
like the pride beating upon my chest.
What did you expect?
I take everything as if what the heck.

Living in the moment,
till I'm out lived by the fewer moments that follow.

So really what the heck?
Rather be the wild card amongst the deck,
black sheep amongst the wool of white,
least then fall into opportunity's sight.

With a little confidence in check,
doing all the little of best.
Then again what did they expect?

Ain't my confidence in check?

Rooibos
—late night thoughts
in a cupful, to the tee caught in the awe,
or in the ways the hot beverage tickles the
tongue floor

     ....one sip leads to more and more

monster affairs,
relations with the dark
a shadow cuts of my deepest
darkest thoughts; thwart on
the words of sheepish tongue
a flock of fears, tears, years and jeers

so unlikely, but unlike what they'd
say, we're not like them—unalike

Jesus eyes made of explosives,
blood on the flag, banners
cascading man's ill motives
A sickening world,
I should speak another prayer,
i just don't have enough of the words.

My self will, is selfish as the kids
hiding candy in their ***** pockets
Life isn't really sweet;
costless living is costly for others,
when you're no longer living at all
Getting all of our kicks from playing games
with the girls. Hoping they play ball,
play with my *****, and maybe catch a score.
Call her by her for a night,
later on, we won't call you at all.

And you should cry yourself a river,
wet up your eyes, so you can barely see
Still don't misstep your feet,
as anyone can slip into their depression
And I'll draw out all of your negative emotions,
as it becomes the picture, as you drew out your weapon.

                               It's a hard world we live in.

Dear me....

If we sold a couple days would  we have enough change to buy the moon,
And are we the unique men or adding space to the toolbox, another  rusty tool.
I heard their thoughts saying we were tripping and losing a bit of our mind,
That we were lost boys stuck in lost and found,  men so hard too find.  
Funny how we wish we could wash away  the past as oceans wash away old sands,
And somebody better give us something neat,  yet we receiving with some very  closed hands.

Hey boy, you still young boy at heart, we were  told to grow up,
I thought we were, but  growing backwards though, but they caught onto  us ,now what's our next come up.
Like we were the shadows of a shadow, we were so unseen,
I only cursed a person one time now I'm regarded as mean.

Fair play, fair play, let's play your game with some wild cards,
No rules set yet, I'll set my own, but now they'll say we slow like we were a bunch of retards.
And how I hate that word even though it's not applying to me,
Feels like you make fun of us all when you say that, you really barking up the wrong tree.

Fair play, fair play, I live to play another day,
Come let's see who'll finally win or are we playing this game a different kind of way.

Tell me the difference between loving you and loving myself,
The answer:
I'd tend to love one of them more
Though an addiction to myself is really a lead into self pleasure, and an addiction to someone else is just lust
tell me what's the difference between loving you and loving myself,
The answer:
I'd tend to love one of them more
I'd probably hate my right hand, cos my left hand tends to do me better, but is that the right to cut off who I hate more in the end, if it's attached to my being?
Same as loving you; I'm left with no right to claim that I own you; but aren't we attached by the hip if your hips had swayed me into being inside of you.
tell me what's the difference between loving you and loving myself,
The answer:
I'd tend to love one of them more.
In the emptiness of my eyes, I see a fuller picture,
so picture me as someone you force yourself to like
What if I seemed like a nice guy in your eyes, and while they're shut, you pictured me as someone else, so vile
tell me what's the difference between loving yourself and loving my self.
The answer:
you could die for both of us,  but only one would truly be willing to do both.

The dark marksman it was,
blew an arrow into the chest of the world
Piercing it, marking it with the numbers
it had perceived added up to it's worth.

6 ties into tying so many to their sin,
but it had been redecorated as, "us practicing free-will"
6 of their artifacts that attracted the eyes of so
many; many of which who prayed to He is one and many
6 of the sons to dance circles around a bleeding world,
the blood of innocence, used to block out the sun.

It wasn't a dream,
but still I could have dreamt of it's unstoppable omen
In the likeness of it's raven's eye
-all was black as the night such a bird only sees
Birds made of black filled the sky of day,
turning it into night. Looking closely;
it wasn't birds, but the fallen angels no longer flightless.

Bathed in the likeness of a hopeful day,
I learnt it was a river of blood drowning the
souls of every child lost in a darkness of no end
I could not see their faces, but I could taste that
all were afraid. As the appetite of destruction, filled
the belly of a beast,- but it roamed the world still hungry
As you could never see it above your head; as it's worshipers
plucked one of their eyes out, to witness their godlike master.

And if you never learnt how to pray in
the beginning; you'd never know what words
to cry out when you're feeling lost & desperate in the end.

But I doubt enough would even listen,
no, no, the message varied to be just an opinion
As the words became twisted by the tongues
of people who were lukewarm and unsalted Christians.
-a tongue twister; the words of false prophets
the words keen to your ears, and hands that take your profits.


               None could see, that we needed to be
                        saved from such a world, saved by the Lord.

As with the most slipping tears
The wettest eyes only to cry at night
The moon is my comfort as an afterthought
On the bright side after dark, it burns to fall in love
Hoping it never loses its spark

Smitten remarks, smithing words to say
Fabrication of the moments of a first date
You'd bite your words desire like a sweet cake

Bones lie where they weight
Death of lovers comes as an eternity being apart
And in the heavens we'll meet to entwine separate hearts

The heartstrings pull and toil time
Incessantly working upon gaining trust
But in an instant a lie could break a love
Stick to vow, solemnly not only heart
Mind, heart, body and soul in place for beloved
To have been cut by love—forever carved

Darling can you meet me by the corner of this lonely man's heart,
Kiss me till forever let me love from this start.
I'll meet you halfway on my cloudy dreams,
We'll fly so far to other worldly places, surviving only on our lovely schemes.
Baby kiss me till forever when we losing all this time,
I'll be your knight in this Golden armour killing dragons to make you mine.

Baby smile for a moment, let  me see those golden eyes,
I'll tell you a secret, whisper it into your ears, my darling a man in love tells no evil lies.

You the thief of my heart, you stole it so many times,
Seeing stars everyday when I'm gazing at those eyes.
You the power to my heart, you give me all this strength so how could I die,
How I love you so much is so crazy, my darling I'm still wondering why.
I love you so much it hurts whenever I cry,
Tears hit the ground too many times to even reply.

So my darling just meet me by the corner of the lonely man's heart,
Baby kiss me till forever, because forever you'll be my one and only start.

Give a say on steps means I'm overstepping
But I do like to stay a step ahead
But come to think of it
that last pun was a bit of a misstep

So please let me know about your feet
Cause all this stepping may lead to stepping on toes
And it's a possibility if I'm stepping out of place

But let's go back to the first step of me overstepping
I did it in a way of stepping out

So don't be expecting me to be stepping down
My foots hard onto the ground of a stepping stone
And that's stepping puns of this stepping poem.

Scribbling out my thoughts, with each stroke of the pen, fervently hoping to extract a semblance of life from this inkless, desolate fountain pen. Its once vibrant hue now fades into anemic oblivion, mirroring the emptiness within me. As I sit in the dimly lit room, the scratching of the pen on paper is the only sound, echoing the restlessness in my soul.

Each stroke reveals a fragment of my innermost desires, like forgotten whispers fighting to be heard. The ink, trapped within the confines of this aging vessel, clings to the paper like a loyal companion, breathing life into my otherwise mundane existence. The weight of my emotions presses down upon the pen, as though I am trying to etch my very essence onto the page.

In this dance between writer and pen, the barren inkwell becomes the protagonist of its own tragic tale. It yearns to bleed its vivid hues, to spill out tales of love, loss, and triumph, onto the awaiting canvas. But alas, it remains trapped in a state of perpetual stillness, biding its time for the right catalyst to set it free.

Yet, in the midst of this desolation, a flicker of hope emerges, a belief that maybe, just maybe, the power of my words can awaken the dormant ink within this abandoned pen. The strokes of my pen become resolute, each scrawl breathing new life into the barren page. The empty fountain pen transforms into a conduit, a vessel of creative expression, as if channeling the very essence of my thoughts and emotions onto the once-blank canvas.

With each stroke, my pen becomes an extension of my heart and mind, releasing the simmering passions, the unspoken truths, and the profound yearnings that reside within me. Though the ink may falter and waver at times, its presence alone serves as a testament to the vitality of my spirit, refusing to be silenced.

And so, I continue to scribble, guided by an unwavering determination to find life within this parched pen. Its empty state no longer solely reflects futility, but rather the incredible potential that awaits, yearning to be discovered. In this journey of expression, every stroke is a celebration, transforming the mere act of writing into an act of liberation, as I release the boundless energy of my imagination onto the tangible page.

Letter upon letters filling my mailbox,
Who's addresses to you base yourself at. Do you have all the keys to the doors and locks.
So much mail in my mailbox of just blank spaces,
The postman tied them in a nice bow with one string, hoping I wouldn't see the lies in the letter's faces.

O' my, I hate to read long lines upon lines of people never coming in person to say such in flesh.
You tell me many things happening in your life and never once asked about me. Yet told me of your wife's new dress.
Yes you did once come to visit but to visit the visuals on my TV screen.
Do you really know if I had all the funds this month to pay for the lights in that Square box, or all the pain that came in between.

Yet you still would send me more empty mail as if it would be better.
I love the nice words you would use to throw me off track from The Truth in your every letter.

But it has come to me that people who go for so long with never touching home will fall so distant.
To only recognize you when the memory were finally to arrive. When you remember of my existence.

Yet I'll still wish you the best dear old friend, for you're always stuck to my heart and mind.
You may be gone for so long, but never shall we leave our best memories of the best times far behind.

A silence of a writer,
with a echoing pen of profound speak,—
it's their next piece. But still searching for the
perfect one; if such perfection does exist.

Do not listen to words of the mouth,
but words of their beating heart.
Lub dub, dub lub, could be the sound of love.
The sound of pain, tragedy, beauty anger, restlessness
and mere doubt. Lub dub, dub lub, passion at every
heart beats count.

Rather be quiet, to let inspiration speak it's
mind. Shut your eyes to see powerful words in
their hide. Lub dub, dub lub, for out of a chest,
beats a silent writer's pride.

       In silence comes the best write.

Each time that I look in your eyes,
A part of me quietly dies.

But I'd give even more,
For the love I adore—
You're my heart in a perfect disguise.

A book inside your eye,
reading pages of your history;
been working on your body,
And living unemployed;
acting like a grown woman,
kissing pretty like an
Innocent girl.

I should take a picture,
just to capture your heart,
cropping out all the issues,
put all emotions on record;
Skins made of golden brown,
so I can taste it's worth,
and my car seat still remembers,
you sitting there, with
all your skinny curves;

Kissing, like I missed you,
grabbing on, like I own you;
But you were never my girl.

Thinking by luck,
I could get a ****, to remember,
a feeling right before,
you go on to hit a long road,
to the places I'll never visit;
Less when I'm going shopping,
a couple Christmas gifts,
long distant kisses, and
all of those future wishes.

Betting we'd miss,
our own wedding day,
skipping the after party,
for another after party. Leave our
guests dancing, grab a piece of cake
just for the extra cream;
So I can eat it,
with you in between;
And call it our perfect wedding.

African child,
we were in love for a while,
living in the moments;
the few tears, and many smiles;
We said our last goodbyes
over a long phone call,
and it's only now,
they ask about you and I.

I'm praying you find better,
and find that perfect guy,
waiting for you, like I couldn't;
And I'll smile for you,
even if it hurts;
Clap for you,
even if it hurts;
And congratulate you both,
even if I can't find the words.

I'll be so proud of you both.
As we all gain something,
when we let go.
African child,
you made me grow before,
during, and the after of
when you were my girl.

                            A thousand thanks.

Surely why must love be found in the trails of fame,
an itch at the back of the throat, gratified by cough syrup of lustful shame.

Seen a car crash last week that reminded me that I was inside crashed and broken.
The ears were closed shut, but the truths were clear to hear. Sound and clear to be spoken.
Subject of the test drugs taken so naively, caught up in a split second of blitz.
Still taking those deadly drugs. Still taking those deadly risks.

Battle grounds left with the scars of a continuous fight searching for fame that is all but undeserving.
Why yet to be keeping all these secrets is so unreserving .

Crashed and burned like a flame once set that has lost it's once bright spark,
quickly speaking ill of the next. Quick to make a smirky remark.

No...

Confined to the empty space and atmosphere, thought for so long to have filled an entire space.
Now time to run away from it all, that past from far behind, faster at a more moderate pace.
To find something way better in the other days still lingering and arriving around the corner,
then touch back at it to feel safe at last and break free from this simple square border....

All our memories of before
Childhood trauma; too young to escape
Or able minded to put condoms on our eyes,
To protect our sights from a mind ****

I could see you clearly after dark,
A place you and I are from; tunnel vision
Trying our best to run to the end of that light
I must have forgotten the taste of a bright smile,
In a summer; summoning up the words to summarise
All the reasons why I’ve fallen in love with you again today

Comprehension; my comprehensive spending
On all the times I picked your interests
Late night texting in secret, sexting at times
And of course it being so risky; we were together
To help each other put back our pieces

The loneliest people, alone in a crowded room
One touch for two, three extra shots
When I’m drinking it all for you
By the four count of a beat;
Causing my heart to beat like a drum
And counting five reasons to hold your hand tightly

           ...mmmh, is this a feeling of love
           or a feeling of finally being loved?

Get a piece of it all, how I'd sweat to have it all.
But only of taste, that my lips slowly run dry. Biting through the small pieces of flesh till I reach the bottom.

And I've run dry in my ways, the same ways that get me in so much trouble.
And in these ways I've learnt to be a little more humble.

But it's not the easiest of things when you build your dreams on foundations that will soon tumble.

But I've seem to have missed the bottom, floating still in the air.
So why doesn't someone rescue me there, Lord almighty don't curse me out while I'm likely to swear.

Get a piece of it all, everything I have doesn't feel enough.
For I can easily think of only nothing in this life.
So to say human nature is typically so tough.

The hand, could do the heart's job
    Still a blind man's work,
  Would toil him to his death.

   All of his dues are robbed;
    A job always awaits him
   But to one who can't see,
How do they count their failings?

Who can run from responsibility,
    feet counting their steps?
Counting all; the amounts of it's due
      For debts to be soon met.

          Play it safe may open one,
   To be safely tucked away in graves.
         They seem to be a waste?

             But open your eyes,
             And be wide awake.

As for one's self-discovery;
channel out reasons searching for love
How to find the right one,
when you're not right yourself?
Do brace yourself-
Looking for love; hand on your heart.

You hold onto love's pressure.
Not all you find lasts forever.

Endless.
Switched it up to timeless.

Really who's got the time to love forever.
Yet still catching those feelings. Shall they ever die, surely never.
So let's share this love of ours, we share in the Sunlights eye,
Who's really counting the time or days. Just letting them slowly pass us by.

O' there goes another day to add to a testimony of time.
Never thought of those days I would be calling a pretty girl mine.
Just listening to the endless symphony of extraordinary songs love sings.
Loving the fact this all beyond we experienced as common flings.

O' sweet memories bringing taste to my sweet tooth,
I love her so, surely I do. Probably spend some time in a kissing booth.

But, let it stay as endless.
Till all our time passes us,  baby we could be timeless.

Tearing up in the most peculiar of ways,
I’m merely another chapter, unfolding with each
new page for every dawn—my narrative, born from
an unexpected prologue, leaves me pondering the
conclusion.

It should be an inclusive story,
but it's often so exclusive to the author’s constant habits
of being a reclusive – my eyes could narrate ten thousand
muses; yet the art of writing these days, has become so
elusive.

I was once a pen, transformed into the very letters
that compose each sentence, and crafting a narrative.
And with every sunrise, I pen another page in this
Book of I.

sweet dream melody,
i knew of a love sweet as an angel
but also a quiet mistress with a broken halo
all of the flashing red lights were singing xoxo,
but they should have been singing in my
eyes SOS.

the quiet ones are the lonely
the humble ones are usually the broken
the brightest smiles have the darkest shadows
the loudest laughs make the silence of their nights
as the ones you build up as having everything in order,
are the lives of people slowly falling apart.

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

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

I am the sacrifice of my own scars –
A case of my own insecurities; an awkward custody
Judged by the eyes unseen to my quiet depression;
As the voices are much louder in the silence of night

Like the walls of a lung breathing in and out,
…inhale…exhale…inhale more…exhales the most
I take in the ill spoken of me, letting out a smile of love

Part of the whole process; how I process most of my life
To contribute in the same fantasy, that everything is okay,
Or whatever…

A coat that is ready in days of being under the weather
A pulled face waiting for a fourth sneeze tickling a nose
It never really comes…

And maybe I’m also feeling so trapped –
But who really knows?

How so strange,
it's only on your birthday people fill
up your inbox.
As is with Valentine's,
the only time you seem to show the most love.

Be it some sort of widespread event.

I've found it sad that people don't cry much for you now,
But can cry a thousand tears when your life is lost. Ever wonder why or how?

Still I ask a question,
why haven't you cried for me in life.
In the times I myself was actually lost,
when things seemed to be down.
Why not also cry a thousand tears of joy once I'm found.

Just a personal observation,
and personal concern.
Please don't think me condescending.

There's a quiet night of crickets,
echoing in the applauds of the handover of sun to moon
A mystic smell of dew, and a due of rest,
I've locked my eyes into a dream, listening to the
ticking wood of an old kitchen door,
It slowly creaks open, and closes rust on their iron hinges
as I'm hinged in thoughts; attached by my many fears,
and the darkness forms a latch,

               -And it's night becomes it's key
                 that unlocks my inner demons poetry

In my grasp, a pair of glasses rests like a delicate cigarette tucked in
my fingers, their lenses capturing an iridescent clarity that dances in
the tempest of the mundane. Here lies the essence of a frightening
revelation—nothing we possess is truly ours; we are mere custodians
of borrowed treasures, granted at birth by a force that can reclaim it
all in an instant.

Time, is a powerful currency, but to us, is a loan—whether
squandered in idle moments or cherished in fleeting seconds that we
strive to make meaningful. We share breaths with those we hold dear,
our heartbeats intertwining in passionate kisses, exchanging words that weave love and conflict, and sighs that echo in tender submission.
Love, a paradox of durableness and theft, weighs heavily upon us,
testing our resilience with every blow we endure.

Beware the commotion of this world, for it will consume your very
essence, manifesting the wickedness of your heart. I have destroyed
my being countless times, only to rise anew, each rebirth a testament
to the lessons learned in solitude. From this solitary journey emerges
the wisdom to coexist with others in this intricate dance of life.

May I be lost for time,
but not lost for you
Lost for words
but not lost for loving you.

From the spirit of awareness,
while playing cold in the growing times of old,
doing right not seeming the farest,
And being so kind is often the rarest.
Breaking the stigma of a point of view,
and perhaps it is true of being the right thing to do.

Cause I may understand a lot, but a lot seems lost,
From paying the cost and gaining the loss,
of being cut off materials of the world of it's one cloth.
And how gracefully we fall right from the top,
when the minds are found but the hearts are so lost.

A stigma we break, till the breaking is broke,
while laughing at the world but you are the joke,
Losing my doubt, but more of my hope,
the actions I do they hardly be spoke.
Oh really, how do I even cope.

The stigma of flesh yearning for silver,
dull eyes dreaming of gold.
And pieces of debt to pay by being your Master's pleaser.
Had it been of my soul being sold, and likewise the world of being so cold.

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..

If we peel away the pieces
of your mind,
Tell me what would we find?

Don't slip on your thoughts,
that are lurking inside,
you might trip over, perhaps breaking your spine.

Just bear in mind.

Attributes of emptiness-
a void we seldom couldn't avoid,
that which I couldn't afford
I'se a glorious imperfectionist,
and how perfect is that in this imperfect world
Is it a goal to compare a life of a successful self made,
to one who could never afford a maid

Smiles all fading in the world's only true green:
"the grass is greener on the other side,"
But I know it hides the many weeds, residing inside
as one so in love, and blindly in love for their bribe
Married to their empty pocket,-  a loyal bride

Do not speak loosely of your words, you'll be loose for change
To work so well with others; it's all the company
of people's similar struggles

The poor will work for the rich, the rich are poor
to them in return. It's just the will of the world

What is a love turned into ashes –
Burnt by the flames of forgotten passions
Actions are so passive;
Our stories still left written out
In captions

My feelings for you are still massive,
Despite being inactive –
So when my lips spell out your name,
I start to fall in love, tasting that old
Bittersweet magic

And it’s truly so wicked, tragic
By feeling so fickle now –
But I happily accept all
That happened…