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.

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

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....

Ballerina creases – a ballad of broken pieces,
Break me down in parts, where pain still leases.
My past lives on in inches, bruised by time,
Dancing round the reasons, moving out of line.

Features of me—like a painting left incomplete,
Still breathing, still dreaming, still finding my feet.
Out in the field, trying not to fall behind,
One step ahead of a runaway mind.

Stable thoughts, but the engine’s wild—
Horsepower pulling my inner child.
A wagon of dreams, heavy with code,
I’m stalling, I’m shifting—about to load.

Don’t sell your soul or cheapen your goal,
Even the prettiest dreams can be sold.
We don’t own it all, yet still owe it all—
Through rain and snow, we rise, we fall.

Chasing myself through a frozen road,
Where passion burns, and a runny nose shows.
They can’t see breath—or the vision you hold,
But seeing it yourself is what helps you go bold.

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.

In the paradigm of this fictional paradise—in the eyes
        Of thinking life is all about bias
On the one side, you may find me on a grey line
Or rather a grey lie; as the N is the ends, of something unfamiliar
You may slip easier while wearing slippers.

As are my best years: warm ash blowing in the wind
Time is just a mastermind, planning only to seem less everyday
I tell myself not to be afraid, of that which few will understand
   Life is unclear, as like watching scenes through filthy glass
   I only worry for the young, as still being a youth
Those trying to achieve their dreams, by the skin of their teeth
                                             With a missing tooth

But where am I even going with this,
      Fuelling insecurities to my drive.
The longest ride of galloping dark horses inside,
   I fail always to have a stable mind.
But let me hose you a little, pouring out my pain in these prose
I suppose it’s the running smell of intentions, with a running nose
   I’m cold, and flew out of the window, busy chasing my dreams.

The birds and bees—life is full of all those awkward conversations
         ***** referred to the birdseed;
         Pollen I guess is fairy dust attracting bees
    Everything eventually desires a multiply; of course to divide
The female’s thighs, adding my power of manhood, bisecting insides
     And we hope not to subtract the time we have left,
       As the final product will be the life of our child

   (I still hate math, but ironically try to make this moment count)

Seriously where am I going with this? That’s me again—
Heading nowhere, without any directions.
    I must of missed the signs; sigh
    So excuse me while I grab my thoughts—not to thwart
    And trap myself in these usual profound thoughts.
Those who love to think deep, probably can’t swim.
And if you don’t get that; blame your shallow mind.
    This is Adults swim—
                         All children kindly step outside.

Now let me talk to the mature poets in the room
I warn you, it’s grave to write like it’s always your last;
Buried as a pen in your tomb
Some would try to write good deeds in the good book,
                                                  In that waiting room.

With your holey socks; the only time you seem a fibre of holy
   Hey you! Take off your shoes, this is Holy ground
         And by the way, that was me being profound.

I’m the chaos of words...The Chaos is profound!

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

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.

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.

Putting my shoes on backwards — stepping straight back
to the past, searching for another path; where the fisherman
never loses hope of reeling in something worth keeping.
Another catch…fishing, baiting, catching on hope’s lines.
We filled each other’s hearts with perfect laughs, ran side
by side on the marathoner’s road — but I never thought
love would be the trickiest mile.

Hey — whatever happened to that silly boy who swore he
loved all of your vibrations, the ringtone that made him dance
whenever you called his name? He smiled in group photos
with friends he didn’t like anyway — if it meant he could
fit into your picture, He’d frame his discomfort and pose.
He’d stand in the rain just to give you a sunny day.

He wore casual smiles to match every conversation, he played
your superman in shorts, his confidence a little short too; fogging
his own glasses with the breath of your words. We stood so close
the air between us could have been a kiss, but we stayed as friends,
our thoughts and hopes sealed under the covers of  “what if.”
But we dressed our hearts in dreams of maybe — perfect lovers
undercover, hiding in plain sight because losing each other
would hurt more than never trying.

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.

July babies, falling in the
atmosphere of a beauty's sight

In a line, a straight answer to say
you're so beautiful

But as usual, a beautiful sight causes
a man to lose his words

To sell his worth
to afford the confidence to talk to you

But as usual, the fool struck by beauty;
is lightning striking twice

...so all he can say is,

"hey you look really nice"

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.

Bite into an idea— rows of teeth, tension tight.
Crowded smiles feel so exposing— but this one,
it gnaws deeper. The tension between teething
regrets and tethered faith feels so frayed, as if
the cord was always a little too short to begin
with.

I’m not riding the wave— just swimming a little
longer in my dreams; watching surfers sail off
while I sink into thought. But I surf the internet,
researching the cultivation of infinitude—
whatever that means. Diving into unfathomable
depths, only a few steps in and I’m already losing
my breath.

Have I sprouted yet? Most days, my sadness
drowns in my anger. Then a spark of joy appears—
brief, fleeting— but its glow only makes me
so sad again. And that sadness simmers back into
rage, and the loop begins once more.

A cycle.
A seesaw.

A silent crusade to love myself again.
But the journey never really ends. Even while
searching for one. we push forward—again,
and again— until we find a better end.

The days of young,
when the night starts to
kiss the sun.

An explosive portrait I tend
to see,— brushstrokes of orange clouds
Sprinkles of the hues of blue in the
pockets filled with a sky of dreams,

       A perfect scene before I go to sleep.

Can’t be everyone’s hero—
but it’s so easy to be framed as the villain in someone’s story,
caught in the blur between goodwill and what they believe is ill will,
the wheel spinning from “helpful” to “harmful” without warning.
The sickened influencer—tired of carrying hearts like glass—
now catching cold thoughts, like a mind with influenza,
and I’m wondering: do I get any better at doing the most,
or do I just give less of a **** as the walls I build
crumble beneath the weight of everything I try to hold back?
Does any of it matter, really—at all?

Not everyone will love you like a lover in the honeymoon season—
the moon only glows for a night, and even the sweetest honey dries
when left open too long. And what you think might bring us closer
can become the very thing we learn to hate together.
But maybe in the court of opinion, I’ve become too quick
to cast judgment—forgetting that my sense-of-self
sometimes acts selfish too.

But I’m not standing tall above anyone—I’ve got my own
shortcomings, and none of them come in small doses.
I sin too. Like you, I can act so human, too human, too often.

Don't sell yourself short,
child the world is too tall
Trying to reach to the top;
you must invest in a stool
Grab what you need at that top shelf,
quickly, quickly before they make you fall

Don't sell yourself short,
child your soul is too tall
It's easy to sell out, but not to buy
into those worth while dreams
What sells the self is a sellout,
and I wouldn't want you to lose it all

Chuckles
          Ironically, I'm sold by that advise.

There no such thing,
As a bad poem –

It’s merely a spectrum
Of Preferences.

There’s a girl who mirrors my every move—
   it makes me afraid of my own reflection.
And if I’m biting time,
  then please— serve me a couple seconds.
I should’ve loved you better, much earlier…
  so I’ll be with you in a second.

Let me shield my eyes— watching you put
on your armour, decorating your smile,
 you’re a mouthful of colour.
A love picked from the bunch,
  too rare not to treat like a flower.
First as a friend, protective as kin—
even when your salty remarks
 mistake pamper for pepper.
Your attraction? In mint condition—
     a treat like a peppermint.

My skin’s a little tinted, my cries tilt
a little sideways— these long-*** messages
   just to keep you from trailing behind.
Smiling beside you, you give me food
  for thought, and a kind word on the side.

It’s hard to find the genuinely kind.
      But you?
You’re a rare kind— the kind I’d hold
on to, if only I knew how.

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.

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.

What if I finally came to all of the places,
to feel eventually complacent
In between seeing a lackluster example
of what it takes to lack love;
Would I be lacking in the appeals
of peeling pieces of my skin to this former apple of an Eve,
The apple of my eye, bitten by the marks of the
world' dogs; with an echo to their every bark?

But what man isn't referred to a dog,
with just another territory to mark
As we're ******* by those trying to be just a man;
with mannerisms of an ill-mannered upbringing,
Did you at least question their gestures with a little reasoning?

We are littered by the stains of this society;
as the illiterate, misread by a literature written
by history's cruelty in a castration anxiety
Even to those cut from the same cloth,
how much have we lost for the cost of just playing another's part?

I'm in part, lost in the standards of this world,
that would cancel my tongue for speaking something so bold
As I've lost the voice in my lungs, and the hairs of my chest;
to honestly have the heart of bravery; as it now appears to be bald

And I would make the fortunes for these misfortuned,
fortunately for the lookers-on, it makes me an abstract portrait
So I'll just portray what I know best from my many teachings,
reasoning, understanding, valuing, and treasuring
To relate to those I have no relations to, to find their meanings


       In politeness,
          I am not one to share any other man's likeness
            Still to rather seek peace in chaos of all this society
               To not find myself caught in between this culture violence

Clears throat...

"Lay me to rest
for how I'm dying to kiss
your face
Still in my head; levitate, levitate
level me down to trade light
words, like smoke in a vape
You're my favourite picture in
my head, and I won't let you out of
the frame

And we're just the anthem of our words,
my hand on my chest; arousing my feelings
You're a rousing and uplifting song without
any shame"

       ...........

"But it's a shame;
you and I haven't met
Still it's the sounds of a yearning heart
continuously calling out your name"

Crowded foresight —  
      thoughts stacked sky-high,  
     cluttered windows of a dreaming mind.  

              Out of mind,  
           out of sight…  
     yet somehow, I keep seeing  
     the better days of my life  
       skimming the edge  
        of a hopeful smile.  

                 That smile —  
          soft, unspoken —  
           given with time,  
        drawn from deep thoughts  
            folded in silence.  

                    . . .  

         Any life worth seeing —  
       any better version of me —  
    is shaped by what I’m willing  
          to put light on.  

               So I  
            paint my  
       foresight with  
   fireflies  and  sunbeams,  
     hoping the dark  
          makes room  
             for the  
            light I  
               keep.

Invisible crosses,
crossing out the days I
had no faith
As if monsters don't already
live in my head,- making me question
if I'll ever be heading in the right direction
From feeling like a dusty old Bible,
unattended to, and in servitude to to
most of my unclaimed confessions.

Could have been close to the ties
of me looking for change from the tithes
But I'll live a quarter of a mile, on
a quarter of my minds tank
I'm a bit too tanked to give anymore thanks,
any more funks, to dance around an n for
the wrong spelling of empty, and make
out as something you should c,- I have no ***** to give.

The softest echo of a heart
Are passions of someone with a secret to love
To express themselves in a manner that feels unmannered
For what I have to say feels like a ***** secret;
Something that would sound so risky

In person, I’m the furthest away from indecent
Still with the right mind set,
I could say things to leave you in pieces
And with a deep sense,
I’d whisper deeply all my unholy secrets,
Wishing for you on my wish list, that I wrote in secret

Like what forms a word, I’ve been well informed
To know that what I say is my target, I make it a goal
Whether whole or hole; there’s always a choice to take
Your servings in full, or to be left hollow in your words after

It could start with laughter, from tickling kisses that go
Up and down; to a crown of piercing sharp licks of head,
But instead the game goes well, by one being pleased and teased
And the shaking of a headboard from shaking knees

Yes indeed, a good loving is hot;
And a good reason for us being caught up in this heat
So don’t forget to breathe; but also know there’s no retreat
As a bedroom isn’t a place for the weak, caught in sheets
And neither for anyone to sound off their moans as meek

It’s a storm of passion; calm for a beginning,
Before the roars of thundering clapping gates
The pours of rain in the sweat dripping down your face,

Without haste, I shall bite the bullet after it’s taste
Another round, another round; shots of chance to pierce through you
A scar so deep,—a memory of last night,
replaying for tomorrow

...last night’s events,
where as eventful as I’d hoped for in this 10:45 hour

Lose my thoughts,
things of which I don't have
But try to be glad,
though life gives me reasons to be sad.
For the secrets I've bought,
many I keep haven't been spoke
And for the dues I've paid,
the end of day has me feeling broke.

This isn't a mood,
or even close to being an emotion
Neither of which is good,
a fragile case to be held with caution
I need someone to hold,
not down but up above my sadness
You can't decide all your feelings,
explaining is hard to those who don't understand
Comforting is harder,
to those who haven't felt such as well.

If I found the time,
I'd use it to encourage myself
If I found the time,
I doubt I'd be willing to give any back
If I found the time,
I'd do more things than relax
But with the time I have,
I have but a moment to do better with a chance.  

So to speak,
you can rebuild yourself from just a piece
Find the peace,
be one to cut away troubles than to slit a wrist.

Do feel my suicide,
but won't feel a reason for me to die.

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

Over the moon,
conquer the dreams of stars
Just like the sun,
we're all bright like these things above.

Concrete coffee grounds — stapled receipts;
messages from exes you’re not ready to delete.
It’s quiet now, filled with dead conversations —
a well-kept cemetery.
Ceremonies in eyeballed crowds, proclaiming
falsehoods of love in soft languages.
Meets and greets, all speaking the lies we
feed ourselves; sandwich boards worn like identity.

Some days, bored with myself, as I draw away
from a good time like a thin sketchbook filled
with half-drawn, abandoned things.
Pulling my heart from my chest like a drawer.
An artist, talking to his shadows —learning from
my old self like it’s shadow.

Avoiding those who tease with wet mouths of lies,
but kiss with dry tongues. Parched —
but maybe just too thirsty for love.
Being caught in a drought: a crumb of eye crust,
tinted with dry grass.
Still, I’d set myself on fire just to be noticed —
willing to be her wild campfire.
But even those fires need feeding.
You can’t give it all until you’re ash —
and watch them move on to another flame.

Making you feel not wild enough.
Staring at the ugly person in the mirror —
and what’s left after the smoke clears?
It's no longer a game of smoke & mirrors

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.

While I'm acting right, don't cause a scene;
Tell me to act clean: I'm too ***** minded;
You say it's dim, but I see the finest.

Right in between those eyes.

Hate me now when I'm acting different;
On my case when I seem suspicious,
Pull me closer when I'm acting distant.

Making sure I stay awhile.

You call me Mr: Not ready to have a Mrs;
Gift your love: Let's all call it Christmas.
Tried to give me a bed job: I quickly said,
'Please stay out of my business.'


Let me rest, before I'm addressed
By your favourite naked dress;
Turn a court case into a pillowcase:
Putting all our issues to their rest.

'That's how we should play it girl.'

Pace yourself: Ran marathons to love;
Played yourself, and broke your heart.
Hate me now, quickly complaining to God;
Say I seem off: He knows you're playing odd.

Still we both see such a perfect angel.

Now I act rude when in Tuesday's mood;
Step on toes when you remove your shoes,
Do you wrong; feelings go misunderstood.

Leaving you to cry on my shoulders.

You inhale, I sigh; And we both exhale.
Inhale, exhale, breathing out this pain.
You inhale, I sigh; And we both exhale.
Inhale, exhale, is how we play this game.

You feel just like Heaven on Earth;
a hellish anger to leave me burnt.
And all with that purity: I do hope
you can keep it under your skirt.

I heard the world is stealing roses.

At times, it seems like I am skillfully navigating my way
through a block of words that could potentially hinder a
conversation, similar to how one would navigate
around the imposing Watch towers on a bustling street.

Dealing with these words becomes a sort of religion
in itself, as they stubbornly cling to their power.
Above all else, these words start to feel as if they
have been suspended in the air, waiting anxiously for
a compliment to grasp onto, like a game of
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe," where I would willingly cross
boundaries just to capture the attention of a lover; if by her toe.

However, in doing so, our pasts would inevitably
catch up with us, causing us to confront
and let go of numerous things.

Consequently, I have transformed into a different person,
one who has hopefully grown enough to be
dispassionate towards my own individuality.
And if I were to personify my growth, I would become
that very message that I have discovered and now wish
to share with others, spreading the sense of freedom
and my new found deliverance.

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.

Bearing a smile that only visits in secluded chambers,
Veiled in a darkness as profound as secrets nestled in shadows,
Soft syllables of silence, misplaced amid the day's pandemonium,
Nightly reveries that drown themselves in the depths of a pillow.
I shudder at the thought of rest; an elusive tranquility we
fail to grasp,

The riddled enigmas etched in foreign minds,
And the plague of local trials.
The heavens hold their silence,
Their formless grey visage troubling my thoughts,
-I feel as washed out as the tempest of words
churning in my throat.

Vows echo in my heart,
While stale promises find refuge on my lips,
A spectator of the ceaseless struggle to survive,
Unfurling around me.

The steadfast, rooted in their words, knelt in submission,
I liken myself to a prayer, suspended in anticipation;
Waiting, ever waiting.

The world's burden bearing down on my gaze,
Weighing heavy with fatigue,
He bears so much, a lion's share he never asked for.
Once, I fancied myself a bloom,
Yearning for the dawn- the dream of a rose,

Yet I find solace in the thought
Of never awakening from this enchanting reverie.

Ten toes down. Ten fingers clinging to
the cross — but even I can admit: some
unanswered prayers leave me feeling  
so cross.

Where both the heart and mind
start to whisper —"maybe we’ve already
been crossed out from receiving blessings,"
even after giving ourselves to that same cross.

The soul isn’t an X to unconditional love —
it still holds on, trembling, but my human
nature keeps crossing out its own heart.
Unwilling to believe in the redemption that
bled for it, too caught in its own voice
to hear anything softer.

Pride’s the loudest preacher in the room.
It tells me, "you deserve it all" — as long as it's
everything I want and nothing I have to wait
for; even when I try to even the odds, I’m
reminded: human nature is always at odds
with itself.

Untie me from your thoughts —
acting loose from your love;
  not what I should’ve known.
Knot-tongued,
  unable to say what I’m really feeling
    inside the chambers of my heart.
Dumpling cheekbones
  feeding off your smile —
    it's a soft scene.
But all of our best actions
  still aren’t worth a movie screen.
And aren’t we looking
  a little too scripted
    in front of our peers?
You —
  my original promissory note.
Please take note
  of every step you take in my mind,
    scribbling down your movements
      like wandering footnotes.
____________

There’s also the shaking trial of courtship —
  in the jaws of both judges.
You say what you want —
  and it turns out to be
    exactly what I don’t.
You try to live in my thoughts,
  but I’m still renting that house.
No roots, no keys —
  just memories on a month-to-month lease.
____________

To say every man is just, "a dog" —
  their barking mingles on,
chasing their own tails,
  returning to the ones who wronged them
    as if they were wrong.
But the dog’s got a bone to pick,
  and it contests every bone.
____________

Truth is —
this, like our love,
  was never meant
    to be a love poem.

All the pretty summers getting a little dark
Reminiscent on all the girls who broke his heart
Battered and bruised by another battle scar,
Misjudged your heart;—pretending to know who you are

Locking demons, next to the skeletons in a closet
Questions of how he does it; to snip away time like
picking up girls with pretty flowers.
Knowing roses aren't always a pretty red, but the blood
stains of picking them up by their thorns
All their beauty and sounds, carefully arranged like poems

But he started off as the caterpillar before meeting
her butterfly kisses. Words flying high in air, and losing
breath complementing his Mrs.
Describing her by fruit shapes,— cherry cheeks,
a pineapple hairdo, and two plump peaches
Always treating you like a baby, and calling you cute
for giving her baby boy kisses

A little Miss info, the only one for you; dishing out info
by a saucer, at times over your head like a UFO
But you didn't know her dirt, even as you were down to Earth
a terrestrial, inhabiting this relationship often being absurd

             ...baby boy, it's been a while since you've kissed a girl

If growing more successful and earning more money,
means losing your roots... please don't plant me in a
*** filled with riches.

If being famous means losing your soul... please don't
let me walk around with fame.

If being a leader of many means I start to become
corrupt... please don't put me in charge of a nation.

And if being heard means harshly silencing those
around me... please don't let me have a...

The taste of tears
love=flavour’s joy
tasted dreams of another
And as a crying shoulder to a lover
             ....our tears make up our love

The taste of tears
anger=boiling wrath
cast in the tone of doom
As we’d cry over anger to keep cool
             ....our tears make up our love

The taste of tears
saddens=weather’s blue
we’d cry together to wash away pain
Tears of tomorrow are drizzles of yesterday’s rain
             ....our tears make up our love

The taste of tears
death=last drops
it will be hard for one to say their goodbyes
Still we know that we’ll meet on the other side
                         ....our tears till the end

I. Fracture (The Splintering)
Divorce in my eyes— not just of lovers,
but of trust split cleanly in two. It’s a quiet
betrayal, where belief in others fractures
like glass in morning frost. The break isn't loud—
It’s slow, and it lingers like silence in a room
that once held laughter.
____________

II. Hope (The Gaze Upward)
Still, beneath the applause of stars,
I offer my belief in myself— a trembling gift
to their gleaming, ancient eyes. May my resilience
Be a constellation they name, not out of pity,
but awe. I crave mesmerizing remarks, spoken with
love—not just spoken of love— if only they knew
how to spell the word without misspelling it in action.
____________

III. Dust (The Reckoning)
Like mystic dust on the untouched virtues of time,
I’ve seen dreams— soiled, scattered, folded into
the pockets of regret. Not just mine. Many.
The world has walked through the fields of hope
with muddy boots. And now, in my dirt eyes,
I carry the stains— not of sin, but of seeing too
much and still refusing to look away.

I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind
that keeps itself driven. Always on. Dreams at any given. And
I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where
obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really
yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something
proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants,
right?

I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong
faith. "And I still try to believe." But saying that out loud feels like lying
to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not
to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people
toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s
weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness
could ever carry any real depth. But it just echoes the sea.

I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. The unread...
The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and
ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still typing, still thinking
of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out.

Pause yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel
like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — just not fitting the costume.

Sometimes you just need one reason — just one — to feel like
yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why
it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to
church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in
dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always
some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness
into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a
collar.

But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real —
and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.

Now who am I to tell you why,
that money you chasing you got your vision messed up in your eye.
Man, your greed is growing, chasing down the money, that makes it your only motive,
The money you chasing, got full amount of power like a **** locomotive.

Oh no look, now you're blind right in the eye,
Now you looking to us like we all got answers to your big why.
And you paid the young girl by the corner, to **** you up dry,
Now she's in the gutter with tears in eyes all about to cry.

But tell me why, who am I to tell you that, the money you're chasing is all but imported.
And who am I to tell you why, all those fake people you hang with love for you was just all but resorted.

Better pay those bills for all those expensive thrills,
Because sorry brother all that money does all the cheap kills.

So let me give you a word of advice young blood of mine, better proceed the money with much caution,
And **** it Me, stop rubbing the money in your skin like fancy smelling lotion.

Altar regrets; please don’t alter my texts –
or delete my last request; as lust requests
you do what feels good, but it all becomes
tomorrow’s bad mistake, dressed out in
yesterday’s breath.

At the front of my books – my body language
in bold font is what I’ll flaunt; though at times,
I’m not so bold at being myself...
Physical or digital – spiritual or literal –
loaning some faith on empty days,
loading some company when I feel
I’m moving through life at my lonesome,
feeling loathsome.

But take your time; write your own books if you
want to – just don’t forget the lessons you’ve read.
Despite being blue-ticked in person, my presence
and influence still get left on read...
I can’t claim ownership of everything; crying for
it all, till my eyes are painted red.

As each good word you’ve received is a divine gift –
to defy the rifts; to train and define your divine gifts,
learn to prune the sickness from your vine so new
creation can live... value the chance to forgive —
make every reason solid, for choosing to live.

The days end like'
The last chord of a song-
As the final curtain falls over
The sky; covering another day
To it's eventual longer night'
An army of silence in the cricks of crickets,
The wickedness of the street calls, yelling out
"Save me, Save me, from the holes in my face"
In a city depraved of maintenance,
A year of the elect; elections around the corner'
I've come to the age to vote; a sexennial older

I a man, like the end of that song
Playing a melody of what self-care, self-motivating,
Self-discipline, and what my true self is willing sing
The key is, to be the beautiful that was tuned into your spirit

                                     ...Sing loudly myself

Wasn't a crime of love, a custom feeling holding two places wasn't enough.
Growing tired and weary, losing hope in you dearly.
Upon a hungry heart going into starve,
as the closest meal isn't as close nearly.

A short verse grows colder than a body in a herse,
a swearing word raises concerns, and upon a curse.
And it's a familiar time I act the worse.

A haunting whisper,  turns my heart anew in a new year,
So saying goodbye to the old feels so weird,
but still wish I never knew you.
And time has past from a white hair in my beard.

So a custom please to myself, and the unhappiness towards my wealth and health.

I'm a moth in a firing line,
who shot his shot with a firefly
I kissed a few butterflies, but the
feeling of love was caterpillar
—I cocoon my heart, in the hopes
it will one day grow to be beautiful.

hearts racing,
the grass is split-
lioness has caught prey.