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

🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋

Vultures fill my skies, preying on me.
Don't pray patience, already have enough of that.
Behind the disguise of the vultures in my skies, I'm only seeing black.

Preying birds while I don't pray much for mercy.
Having the weight of the world on my shoulders. Don't wait along for me.

For right now I face against myself and the many demons trying to hurt me.

And we both take to this heart of mine as work of art,
No wonder why we both prey for it's prize.
But to us both we're on fallen grounds, both hoping to rise.

Preying thoughts while praying on Love to rescue me.
Vultures in the air tonight. Wasn't it already dark enough.

But I hope no man to follow in these footsteps, better yet don't follow me.
Not looking for the pain inside of me to be the honesty of my mind, just looking out for Love.

So don't prey on me.

Two-step verification — it takes two to fall in love,
but that’s yet to be confirmed. Grinding gears just
to talk, shifting through awkward conversations,
but we can’t reverse all the bad things we’ve said
at those rushing high speeds.

Lovers with underwear conversations, trying to fix
what they barely understood, so unaware of what’s
really the problem. We run into relationships holding
open scissors —the result? Just another love story
cut too short.

But teach yourself to love someone new, still maybe
the lesson won’t stick. So brace for impact when they
say, "I truly love embracing you."

And I feel like Saturday news — as they talk about us
like weekend headlines. They say I left my imprint
on you, but that just comes from being pressed for
a time, rushing to report every mistake before the
feeling fades.

Needing nothing — and in the same breath, needing
each other. Yet neither of us has anything long-lasting
to give. To love someone with real deep depth while
they only offer surface depth. Lurid entertainments.
Frozen, unflattering coitus. And quoting someone else’s
expressions because we’re too shy to speak out our own
love language.

Two people, extending their existence — but modern
love feels like this: one of us still alive in the moment,
while the other is just living in a picture without you
in the end. ////// You claimed to be bound to each
other, but it was really bound to end

A.. a nation of great, surely this is our land.
Amongst us all is it's people, all many jewels of different colour and brand.

F... fought for this very freedom we bare today, that we got from fighting so long and hard.
Many chained and shackled, many fallen heroes, many more of them still bared.

R... righteous shall a nation like us stand through the test of time,
Hold dearly to yourself this land of many colours, aged to perfection like a glass of the best tasting wine.

I... in darkness we have fallen so many times, losing the worth of our very jewels.
Faced by the very controls of this man, all their policies and all the government rules.

C.. can we not stand strong together my brothers and sisters, stand strong and block out all our enemies as a great nations wall.
The world at many times may try to tear us down, but my dear Africa shall we not walk tall.

A... and as the days may pass a thousand times,
Yes we may lose many people, many lives but don't get caught up in all the lies.

For this is your home, were your mother feeds your mouth for your stomach to be so full.
So do not seek another hand to try feed you and take her place , don't play the other fool.

Speak proud of your nation, bless it well with your words,
For many spoils follow us, so many hopes and dreams flying in our airs like our beautiful birds

So my dear jewels of her Nation Great Africa,
May this Africa day be always the best.
Speak well of your nation, for you were born to be her people and surely not part of the rest.

This is, Our Africa

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.

So kept at odds
a life in a mirror; reflective ways
cracking, cracking smiles to see
a fragile side. To make love in front
of a mirror, yet she's the only one to see
herself cry

His breath is vile, heavy smoked
and coughs in between—spitting exhaust
Speaking pleasurable remarks,
but all but unpleasant words in her bones

She should of spent the night sleeping alone
shouldn't have answered his call
shouldn't allowed herself to be called a *****
shouldn't have forgotten about his wife at home
shouldn't allowed herself to be a side piece
a piece of guilt in her side; she has no peace
being chased by a dog, why they called her a *****

"No, no, you're just my side chick
a reason enough when my wife has had enough"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
I'm serious about you, but we're just having fun"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
I'll feed you and your family, and buy you a house"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
she's not around with the kids, but move in caution"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
I won't pay for another child, here's a number for an abortion"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
I can't always be there for you when you're lonely"
"No, no, you're just my side chick
wrinkles on clothes, ***** texts; don't air out my ***** laundry

"You're just my side chick, my side chick"
said an old man to a young naive girl.

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

It seems my emotions must find their rest,
Yet slumber eludes me-, a constant test.
As torment resides, reflected in my gaze,
Slowly turning to ashes-, tomorrow's haze.

Once, I was lost in dreams, in a forest so grand,
But now my skin feels naught, scorched by the land.
As the same scorching heat, consuming the trees,
Leaving me numb, devoid of all pleas.

As reality peels off my eyes, like a fleeting tattoo,
Where nothing feels real-, a transient view.
Mirrors shattered, in a mind of fragile glass,
A fractured reflection, and a mask that won't last.

Sorrowful tears, with impure intent,
Washing away all, as they're freely spent.
Like water beneath my sink, dripping away,
Taking with it all, in a sorrowful sway.

Vultures I rely on, hoping to evade,
Becoming their prey, in this world's cruel charade.
For it's easy to be devoured, my dear,
In this unforgiving world, where shadows leer.

If I could die,
I could die for you someday.
When the worlds on fire,
burning in flames of denial,
Can I at least do something?

I really wouldn't mind,
to be on fire.
So just stay alive.

I really wouldn't mind,
if you could rise when it's all falling.
Just find the time,
the time to stay alive.

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.

You deserve more of
what you get,
Little glances at you
more than enough to make any fall
Tis be like a season of love
long before the spring of roses on Valentine's.

Though I'm still not the biggest
fan of the time
You've blown into my thoughts,
controlling my hearts AC
Forced to adapt

But if I cross my eyes
before you cross my mind as always.
You might see the X right
on my heart.

So you could treasure my
love, cherish it for the worth
Gladden me babe
to gladly be in love with you.

Ghost fires,
blaze away at the spirit
At the core
is the very essence of child
A fallen being,
also a flame yearning to rise.

The ashes of old
have come to be grey,
And in beauty
the growth of a Rose.

Bright and red
like the flames that conceived her
Rising to kiss the sky,
but knows to defend herself.

To the world,
a sure thorn to it's side
But to it's people,
an example to live with a spine.

From Fires that created,
she's a blazing storm of worth
From Earth that holds,
she knows her very roots
And Water that calms,
life in her does surely flow.

As is the life of her.

Blinds descend upon the windows of my soul,
protecting my thoughts that are delicate as glass
Behind me, beyond myself – I gazed beyond
My façade.

I ventured past the exterior— the interior,
yearning to be recognized as a blossom,
and not merely as a
Stubborn ****.

Would someone kiss me, and not make believe –
to make me believe, that their touch won’t
Last me that long.

I’ve known a version of myself
one that’s been way too sad
For long.

To what end,
do we keep
Looking for hope
In empty songs?

"Singing to myself"

When the day ends;
you make me wish the sunlight could stay,
Longer hours with you;
we don't spend enough time in the day.

as i traverse through the depths
of my own transgressions,
i am acutely aware of the celestial
realm shedding tears of sorrow.
it is an unending cycle of wrongdoing
that has permeated every fiber
of my existence.

these tears,
like a torrential downpour,
cascade upon my weary head, submerging
me in a sea of remorse.
the stains of my sins, like a vile residue,
cling to my very being, a constant reminder
of the hand I have used to wipe my face.
the heavens themselves bear witness
to this filth that engulfs me.

"oh, but you, so young and naive,
indulging in acts of self-inflicted harm
in the name of amusement.
little do you realize that your days
are numbered, and the reckoning
will soon be upon you."

when the time comes for you
to account for the good you have done
with the life bestowed upon you,
how will you respond?
love may profess the willingness
to sacrifice everything, yet no one
can guarantee passage into paradise
for another.

the heavens, undoubtedly,
weep for me, just as i weep for myself.
however, the heavens forbid me from
shedding tears of my own.

.

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

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

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.

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

I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.

I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.

But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.

No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.

And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.

Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes—
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.

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.

Beating a stigma
 with a stereotypical stick — as they tell me  
“Do stick to your kind” if I ever hope to suite in.
But trying to suite in never really means you’ll fit in —
it just means you’re dressed for the part, and not the room.

Because when the interior world doesn’t match
the exterior’s performance, the walls echo as a stranger.
    Being “mysterious” is still a bit of a mystery to me —
Especially when society’s own boundaries blur like
  breath on glass. So they’ll corner you with regulation
and call it freedom. But the regulars aren’t in order.

Again, boundaries do blur,
  like lines drawn with wet chalk.
Regulations - written by those who keep changing the page.
Still, society will corner you and call it “open space.”
The regulars aren’t in order. They call us too young to be this
    tired, by this idealistic age, that has us exhausted by reality.

Some mornings, I hate being told “Good morning.”
It sounds too bright for the kind of dark I’m carrying around.
My face? Is mundane by necessity. And I’ve surrendered to
the grey — because bright ideas can get you darkened these days.

Memories always haunt us —
   but we never get the gift of being ghosted by our pasts.
We are phantoms in the present, shadows behind the future,
hoping to step into the light without burning.

But let’s make light of the struggles we face, and not
just fight demons in the dark. The dark is their territory —
but the light is where we name things without shame.
Cos in the weekly sense — you wear your weakness
  like cologne, but cover it in the smile of a pretend-bright today.

As I stood there, surrounded by the smoldering remnants
of a testament fire, the fierce and burning flame of truth
licked at my lips, leaving behind the taste of ash and smoke.
It was as if the very essence of my being had been
engulfed by the scorching salts of the Pacific ocean,
causing me to drown away the weight of my past and
propel myself towards a new, transformative moment in my life.

In that pivotal moment, as I gasped for breath,
I could feel myself taking in a new perspective, as if I
were biting into the air itself to taste a vision
that the world could never comprehend.
The decision to speak out, to give voice to the dream
that had long been buried within me, felt like a bolt of
lightning striking at the core of my being, collapsing my
chest with the weight of my own despair.
Yet, behind the mask of my fixed gaze, it seemed as
though none could truly see the depths of my turmoil.

With each step I took through the blistering desert,
the searing heat pierced my skin like a thousand razor-sharp
blades, each one a painful reminder of the unstable journey
I was now embarked upon after losing my trusted steed.
My once-moist lips were now as dry as the touch of the hot,
heavy air that danced in merciless circles on my sun-drenched skin.

And as I gazed out at the horizon, it appeared as
a thin needle in my eye, relentlessly chasing the elusive
tip of the vast ocean, an ever-present hope of finding
solace and respite.

Yet, just when all seemed lost and the weight of my
journey threatened to consume me, a miraculous
sight greeted my weary eyes.
In a corner of the globe, hidden away from prying eyes,
I stumbled upon an oasis.

Its pristine water beckoned to me, tantalizingly
close to the edge of my own demise.
With each sip, it tasted as if it held the spirit of life itself,
filling my cherished cup to the brim and overflowing with
a sense of renewal and gratitude.

In that moment, as the cool water quenched
my parched throat, gratitude flooded my being.
I was no longer consumed by the burning flames of my past;
instead, I stood, reborn and rejuvenated, ready to embrace
the boundless possibilities that lay before me
— no longer burnt out.

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?

Missing names in my letterbox— but mostly yours.
And I have no right to claim it, no reason to expect
your name to arrive again.

I try to write it out— all that it was between us.
A love so bizarre, so hard to define, yet somehow…
energizing. But I want to cut the ties my eyes have
to their tiredness— but I’m still oddly entangled
in the thought of falling asleep to the memory of you.

Tired! Tired!

But no rest compares to you, or the rest I see.
And maybe—
just maybe— the measure I hold love to now
is too tight, too closed, to give anything new
even a chance.

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.

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.

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.

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.

~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

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....

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.

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

Oh yes, I deserve to be touched like a song —
The kind that hums warm beneath your skin,
Truly the kind of verse that lingers after it's gone,
Feelings like lips chasing honey, aching to begin.
I'll be a hundred miles out of breath; no ease —
Not to drift through love like life’s just a breeze,
But to feel the weight of it, strong and long —
Not to breeze through kisses like they don’t belong.

Let me find the centre of her hive, even if it stings —
I’ll wear the wounds for the sweetness it brings.
And I'll give buckets of love — let her be my list,
Filling up her day as a bucket list; every joy I’ve missed.

☐ To check myself daily — am I still right for her?
☐ To write emotional cheques that mirror her worth
☐ To admire her skin like diamonds, her hair like dusk
☐ To breathe in her scent — warm myrrh, not just musk
☐ To love her as one who's fully unmasked and just,
☐ To rise beside her in creation; like Adam from the dust
☐ To speak smooth words not to convince, but soothe
☐ To be her steady stillness, to be her rhythm, her truth
☐ To warm her up like tea after long, many loud days
☐ Then to spill the tea of our day, in the softest ways
☐ To hold her close where she can safely freefall
☐ And to keep my arms armed, but never build up walls

‘Cause everyone’s quick to think love peaks with *** —
But true touch starts when the soul, and another connects.
Where her rivers rush not from the waist, but from her heart,
And your love leaves graffiti on her walls, becoming fine art.

As you don’t paint over passion — you trace, and extend,
As you learn and value all of her curves, love and her bends.
To be a market of marvels; variety with depth in store —
So she aches with wonder for what's in store.

She truly deserves more.

Quick to fold into myself — these are the cards I’m keen to hold.
I’m playing the game of life, love, and growing old.

“Here are your cards, son.” But no one taught you how to play.
No rulebook, no dealer’s grace — just silence and a seat at the table.
So it’s up to you to figure it out, Kassan — learning to deal with
regret while life deals you more hands of hardship to accept.

Go on — place your bet. Will you find success? Will you chase the
dream? Will you even get a shot at love when every reason still
shoots you down? And would you risk it — even after every loss
you can count, forgetting how many wins you once held close?

You deal with the hand you’re given. But even the purest heart holds
the dirtiest intentions — so by extension, you might be playing
with a ***** hand. Still, we all play into this game we call life. It’s a
poker bet, a Crazy Eight, where you don’t even get to declare.
So you study the faces life deals you and wear a poker face to keep
your tells in check.

Don’t count your gains too early. Take them home to count —
slowly, privately. Don’t get robbed by the table just for showing
what you’ve earned. And the casino only closes when you leave.
The lights stay loud and lovely from across the street, but there
are no clocks inside. So you better watch your step.

Because despite how it looks, this life smiles, knowing **** well
it’s not a friendly game.

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

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?

Finding the reasons to cry becomes an arduous task,
as time never seems to be on our side. It's disheartening,
but in all honesty, it's all dismissed, these thoughts and
moving on.

It might be more productive to search for another opportunity
or moment when tears can freely flow without judgment.
He often says, "sure I'm fine, very much so," attempting to
conform to societal expectations that men should suppress
their emotions and not shed tears.

The act of crying, however, feels like nothing more than a
mere suggestion; an optional response to the intense emotions
that overwhelm us. Revealing our true feelings seems to
invite a barrage of inquiries and curiosity from those around
us, causing discomfort and unease.

As a result, seeking solace and comfort from others becomes
nothing more than an illusory concept, an intangible notion
that we struggle to find.

In our pursuit of a peaceful heart, we are often bombarded
with well-meaning advice that we choose not to follow.
The idea of finding inner peace becomes a distant dream,
drowned out by the noise of societal expectations and the
pressure to adhere to conventional masculine roles.

So for now, we must learn to cry silently, bottling up our
feelings and playing the part of a stoic man today, in the
hopes that tomorrow will bring a change.

                         ...men don't cry!

Inferior superiority
Interior seniority
Insecure authority
And insular metaphorically,
I'm liken to a voice of Mr Nobody

Smoke ashes
Soak gashes
Broke hashes
And woke scratches
Been foolish of taking many chances

Underestimate sentiment
Unintelligent celebrant
Evident etiquette
And relevant testament
But still being treated as a detriment

While if called unreliable
Still viable by the words of man and woman
To sound as desirable—
But told his manhood isn't sizable

All my life, I've been underrated
and my feeling towards it is so jaded
Of the times of being underappreciated
My pride is deflated—but I must deafen ears
To all unfair opinions stated.

Strike a chord with this smoke, playing addiction
in a thin tune- call for a rematch; as the fire that
escapes my lungs are many exorcisms: buy me
a healing patch

Years afterwards; my voice thins out with time
like there’s helium in the air- all of the warning
signs written on the box; the very first few puffs
were a sign: a youngling’s toughen coughs

Inherit the habits of man’s old habits- the coal
miners who must have breathed ashes; those we
were quick to call a bunch of dumb *****- now
we’re the ones lost in the ashes of their past

Chimney throats; the tiny stick we all thought
would paint us boys into tomorrow’s men- then again,
not much of us will be old enough to see a tomorrow
by this cancer stick’s end. Oh, what a shame

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.

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.

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.

Surely that often enough you look that fine
Aged on the Beauty and taste of your Love
Lips tasting on you of such fine Red Wine.

A glass for my troubles just to dull them off
Darling be the last of the strong grape essence that will grip my throat.
Darling Red Wine of mine of much worth.

For on this night O' Love of mine
Your heart turns the twirls of my mind till it spins out of my control.

For a piece of your Love has paid off my feelings for you by a dime.
For I'll search so deeply inside my soul,
To finding reason to grow old of your taste.

But you'd never go to my tongue's memory to spoil.

Stirring my heart, stirring through me, piercing my heart right through.
Sticking to me that close that we're probably one.
And surely I'm not taking all this just as childish fun.
For I take to your taste that seriously enough that I never grow tired of you.

My sweet, sweet, Red Wine,
O' How often do I see you so fine.
For my Heart is awed to the knowing of you being Mine.

O' my Red Wine.

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.

With a naked eye,
I share these naked thoughts—
so bear with me a moment.
You found me in a vulnerable stance—
bare, but still standing on business.
Banking on every dream that still
has a resting chance.

Even when life feels mundane in too
many ways—I keep pushing, fighting
the material gaze of critics, and the
cryptic ways some people define love
and measure trust.

But between all people, there is life—
and in life there’s the chance to live out
a dream, to become who we are without
shame, to love who loves us back, yet still,
hold out a hand, as an extension of love
to those who need it the most.

And maybe, just maybe—that’s the kind
of dream worth believing in.

There’s a hollow kind of happiness
caught in the curve of an imperfect smile—
where soft lies rest gently on the tip
of a weary tongue.

To be truly happy is to risk the world
watching, waiting for your fall—
constantly crumbling on your knees,
like a prayer too faithful not to be heard.

Vows taste bittersweet, like knowing,
deep and quiet, that you’ll fail before you begin.
And still—you hold the hurt in your hands,
the same hurt that shaped you,
while denying how deeply it still aches.

But pain denied
denies you healing.

As you are still searching for yourself—
like an arrow already loosed, still chasing
its aim long after the bow has let go.

And maybe you won't land where you
thought—but you’ll find something solid
beneath your feet. And not every wound closes
clean, but even scars can trace a path for you
to follow.

I'm a psychopath, as I cycle in a path
On life's roller coaster tracks, I lost track of time,
An untimely demise to a Sir married to his prize—a surprise
To come to build a fort around a heart's comfort
Come forth to forgo your old ways; wayward thoughts to
ward my love from running away

Anyway I'm stuck on a dream of yesterday
Trying to make it revelant today
Two days later the latest trends become late
Fashioned state; fashionably late
it's a fashion state of late, when you try to deep fake

Spear your spirits; cuts deep being a Christian
Spearhead, someone with deep thoughts untold wisdom
A little devilish smile into making love,
All the feelings that awkawdly develop
Nothing lasts forever like sugar in a piece of gum
Chewing on your words, and biting your tongue
And if blood tastes like cinnamon; it would be few
to the looks of eyes to see no men. Feeling nearly
the same as a synonym

Another questionable phrase to the praise
of your own son asking you for a raise
We're all living to gain, doing it all again,
and again; in the end it's all a game