In every kiss,
I forget why I'm sad,
the memory of hurt fades,
by unspoken words on lips.
   Ignorance is truly bliss.

Dear darling.

I'm staring at the sun, with the light
in between your eyes; and this feeling inside
of your bright smile. Summer kisses, caught inside of
it's denial. And the filled cases of your love; trying not to
lose this trial.

It's those lips that shapes that smile; those last skins giving
depth to those thighs. And writing about you; that helps
me with these rhymes. I'm in the directions towards love;
I'll meet you by all of the signs. I'm found; but it's a new love
I still need to find.

So by the end of this short letter line,
my penned down emotions are red signed.

Sighed,

A red love you and I will find.

Nosey!
I guess I am,
a boy just wishing to grow into a man.

And by the lies I do tell,
it's growing longer for me to ever fall short
Oh Pinocchio, how could the world ever love us, when all the love in the world feels so bought.

Feelings aside,
hating the mistaken times I've taken the deed of living inside of pride
Never living out of the world,
cause I found it much warmer inside.

A piece of wood thrown into the fire,
till ashes are all what remains
Perhaps tied a knot into these puppet strings,
that never break so easily for their my chains.

Oh Pinocchio, I'm so ashamed.

I've been done in by a sly fox,
buried a lot of my worth, hoping for it all to grown enough to afford a wooden house

And like an foolish ***,
I've kicked my own self.
Oh Pinocchio, I surely wish I could be anybody else.

Like a trick,
the play of hand has made it's deal
And maybe if I question reality enough it might show me what's real.

But I'm so much like an old story the world seems to have forgotten,
much in common with the darkness,
my body much like the same material of this black coffin.

Still forgive my whaling Oh Pinocchio. Shall I swallow my sorrow
Maybe be a little thankful for today, but I'm so remorseful for those days that come after tomorrow.

Oh Pinocchio, could I tie one more knot into the string,
could I spell out what I feel, like your name I spell out every time I sing.

Could I ask my creator to create the better version of me,
if such a thing does exist, how could it be.
In the sense of being able to see.

I'd see to that very future,
wind-up into blowing winds heading there
No longer sitting on my talent, though my material is what I sit on as a comfortable chair.

Oh Pinocchio,
I surely don't know
For I once was you so long before. But I'm not a wooden boy anymore.

I'm too full of a fool; (in love)
death do us part, love you to death,
That's a coffin built for two,— some of me, some of you.
Why cry like an ocean; when your favourite
colour is blue?

There's a shade of yellow; particularly
in the back of your eye... so bright knowing; thinking
about you; (my brightest idea)

I'm alive; in a live performance of watching you
move my heart in motions. Motion pictures;
you fill with films of your story.

But if only...

I wasn't a writer of my imaginative;
a painter in the mind of what if's.
Being good at writing about love out of love;
this is poetic madness.

Tasting your lips; is so close to sipping on wine, I tasted your
maturity, the finest savoring of your very worth- after every
kiss, I’m left so lost for words.

Lost in the loud colour of your lips; a crimson night- where I had
very well kissed a dream. You were sleeping below my chin, resting
on my chest, and I slowly kissed your forehead to lift your eyes open.

You thanked me, for being someone who loved you as the person you
are; and not what you had been before. Your sanguine lips whispered
the loudest secret; with a vestige of your spell. I read the tales of your
lips-an odour of your past, spoken in their shaking trace; a mute tear
on your cheek; searching for someone to rescue you in these long nights.

Waiting for a knight- we met each other while lost in a night. The guise
of people’s eyes, could never shape you out so perfectly; as perfect as
each one of your curves. From greeting so many people with our lips;
you could taste a thousand of them, but only have a fondness for one.

                                                       Your lips, are my perfect sonnet.

bury me alive, and let's just pretend it wasn't suicide
oh, you don't like me, well so do I — there's this ugly version
of myself that I can't deny, so to every girl I date, I always
pray you'll find a better guy

still, I fell in love with the rhythm of your eyes,
cos you always seem to view me as a better guy. to my
surprise, you give me reason to stay alive

but I always tell you not to read too deeply
on some of the things I say. darling I'm only human —
sometimes I make spelling errors, still was it a spell that
you fell in love with me?

      your purpose is love,
                 and I'll protect it with my life.

Soles of white dusty red shoes,
Old laces, and pieces of plastic on the tips,
Newspapers to add space in a mediocre label,
Fake Vans, that ironically says, ‘Original’
In place of that brand’s tag.

Red, and reliable like the last piece of value,
In a house of not many valuable things.
Except the memories of the places I’ve walked,
Bruising my ******* jamming my back heel,
Into a rather than tight new pair.

“These are supposed to be size nines”

As like the age my foot grew longer than I did,
Taking every corner before I did. Indicating loudly,
Which next turn I’m going to take.

Truly shy of my foot without the covering protection,
Of a common shoe. Don’t judge how far I’ve been,
By the measure of the state of my shoes.

I haven’t been that far...

Though I would like to have,
To foreign places like the land I bought my shoes.

Today I had to throw them away,
Which felt like I threw away...

A piece of a memory,
A piece of my wealth,
A piece of myself,
A piece of favourite clothing,

Worn so proudly on my feet.
Farewell to my reliable old red shoes...Sigh!

I was raised in my father’s ill-timed
           old ways: as a man saying how he feels,
           was like ash in his ashtray. And I had
           smoked up a few reasons of not finding
           certainty; but instead finding answers in
           all addictions as a troubled youth.

I remember looking for a quick fix,
          like a constant broken clock—
         without a lot of time.
         As it felt better not to admit to why I
         was crying secretly at night, and instead
         going around faking all of my smiles.


As I never once felt like I could fit an
        ounce of myself in my family, and
        sometimes the thought of being a
        mistake would be a thought I’d accept
        so gladly.
“I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a ******,
           I’ve been an idiot, I’ve been a coward,
           and I’ve been less than a good friend,
           Feeling less of myself most times, in
           saying I don’t amount to anything”—
           were all of the things plaguing my head.

I’ve been so sick of love,
          pretending to have known it as much
          And to my luck, I’ve been unlucky enough
          to know the way I lived felt like a vortex,
         cos it always ******.

Sprung out on how I forced my appearance,
        sitting on bottled emotions, ignoring
        how I’m really feeling— all thought
        to show a man in their great zealous.
        Such a lie it was; and a door to the
        knowledge of depression, that I tried to
        hide so well, with years of experience.

Cause I was taught,
          “real men don’t show their feelings”
           Still what are these feelings, I’m feeling?

Feeling sad, depressed, a mess,
          who can’t confess that sometimes
          he's a mess and not always at his best.
          Still, self-perfection isn’t what the
          whole world expects. And unless this
          boy chooses not to digress from tackling
          the feelings that have him compressed; that
          boy will only be a boy who still sits in their
          mother’s nest.

Cos no bird will truly soar where it rests—
          so would I; never be a man in this crazy
          world, by just covering up all of my sores
          in my heart with a bulletproof vest. I
          already swallowed up those bullets; choking
          up on all of the words of, not saying
          what’s beating at my chest.

Today, today marks the day,
          I threw out that **** ashtray.
         Cos the ash in that tray, made me feel
         like, the *** of the day. And I refuse to
        do the donkey-work, of pretending that
         I’m always okay.

        No, I'm not okay, because I’ve spent
        my life being burnt by the scorching
        ash, in that old ashtray.

                          It’s time for healing.

I am a raindrop, born in the clouds. My existence, a fleeting dance between the ethereal and the tangible. I join my siblings, millions of others, in a journey that seems both endless and predestined. We tumble, we spin, we collide, and yet there is a strange sense of harmony to it all. As if we are part of something greater than ourselves, something that transcends the physical world.

And then, finally, we reach the edge of the world. The vast, endless expanse that stretches out before us. We plummet, feeling the weight of gravity pulling us down, down, down. The wind rushes past us, tearing at our tiny forms, yet somehow it also carries us forward. It whispers secrets of the world below, of the life that awaits us in the depths.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, my journey ends. I strike the surface of the water with a soft splash, disappearing beneath the surface. I am no longer a raindrop, but a part of something else now. I am a leaf in the still waters of a pond.

The world around me is a study in contrasts. Above, the sky stretches out in shades of blue, dotted with clouds that occasionally drift past, casting shadows over the water. Below, a carpet of greenery sways gently in the breeze, hinting at a hidden world teeming with life. I drift lazily, carried by the currents, my only concern being to stay afloat and avoid being swept away.

Drifting gracefully on the serene surface of a tranquil pond, I exist as a leaf with no defined purpose, no specific path to follow, and no inner musings. Contentedly, I meander aimlessly, embracing the tranquility that envelops these undisturbed waters. As a leaf, I find solace in simply being, surrendering to the gentle currents that guide my journey.

Cobwebs in my eyes;
how to see the world- old and dusty
My love is bit rusty, to even attempt
to steal a heart- a metal mouth speaking,
I spoke of how it felt to be made of gold,
well at least in the eyes of calling something mine

But yes I dug those many trenches,
and stuck a pole that stood as a reminder to it all
And I eventually gained the skill to write out what's
on my mind in secret- a constant mental note

In a distance so far away from myself,
striking a deal with the covers over my heart
A wet blanket; crying under the fabric
of it, to hide away those many tears from the world
I must have been a rose; well at least once before,
but sometimes the roses are still trying to find themselves,
a meaning, an identity, a cause, and a reason to grow

Tell me if you've ever felt like a beautiful flower,
though none of their eyes seem to see such beauty
In an unclear sight; overlooked by those you love,
                  -a story of all the world' blurry flowers

This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.

And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.

If I could move past the point of *******— my bull horns
are beaten down by life’s whip. Feeling ready to blow
my brain, an itchy finger on the trigger, searching for
life's plus centre: a positive man stuck in the middle; senses
sharp, but it sounds insensitive to an eager mind; all
of our dreams have been suffocated by the placenta.

I think I can be honest about the work of others, but
speaking that truth loudly — for some— sounds like
we don’t really love each other. Chained only by deeper
ambition; passion weighs heavy when it isn’t complete.
Here’s a writer’s petition: loving poetry— an appeal to
careless ambitions over being Christian.

Pride mirrors itself— words reflecting the world’s
weakness, ugly earnestness to be outstanding; going
out to make something of yourself as an artist surely
disappoints a family. Gain success through your own
struggle, heavy prayers; "I guess we’ll all be wealthy."

It all depends upon: the task of multitasking most
of your dreams— to exactitude; the power of words,
poetic charge, poetic energy. But know this—the
lightbulb to your dreams is what will turn them on.

All those wanting pieces of your spark—
you’ll lose track of where they all came from.

I've read about bloodshed;
whether foreign or local by hands of same labour,
Tribalism; though something I haven't experienced,
I've felt it's affect. The very hurt of a neighbour.

History has shown us plenty, still the plenty
of hurt in our history we carry.
If these walls could talk; they'd seem lesser, and
quietened by the ground's bloodshed.
History taught us well into future, but affected the
present so badly.

Tears of loss, tears of tragedy,
tears of us, tears of brothers and sisters,
Are tears of all, us as one nation's family.

Tears of old, tears anew,
tears of past, tears of present and future,
Are the tears of another I shed too.

These tears on the grounds of present pastures;
I question how long generations we'll wait for
the tears to into laughter.

Sigh!

The fall of beauty,— a rose buried beneath the
soil of time. A gazelle; prancing in tall grass,
Quickly noticed by attraction and hunt.

How fair does beauty stay in tune,
as like in a jungle...Time preys on you like the
hungry Lion.

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

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

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

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

Soft kisses, reminiscent of gentle touches on the skin,
Enveloped the senses with warmth.
Every steaming breath embraced the moment,
Saturating the air with indulgence.

Each sip from the largest mug etched a soft memory,
Like a painting on the canvas of the mind,
Capturing the essence of Sundays filled with
The comforting ritual of hot chocolate.

The poorest man would say he's rich in heart,
The richest man would say he's poor in spirit,
The happiest man does cry in secret,
The saddest face laughs when no-one is looking,
The patient man has no rush to death,
The busiest man hasn't got the time to drop and die,
The dreamer longs to fly so high,
The insomniac buries his head in the dirt of hopes.

So what of me, in the list?

I'm the poorest when it comes to being romantic; but rich
in my words of flirt. The richest of all my written love
poems; but the poorest in having a love to share them with.

I'm the happiest man when I cry myself to sleep in secret; and truly at my saddest when their eyes are no longer looking at me.

I'm patient on my morals, that keep me separate from death;
but at my stress, I rush into the thoughts of just dropping dead.

And I could dream a thousand times of wanting to fly; though
the insomnia of my creativity, is buried in deep thought.

All that you'd expect me to love, I'd surely hate. And so
I'm unknown to the actual truth of many peers. Who would know me by name, but never my real title.

I am Mr Untitled.

As to start all conversations, with an ending thought
to all discussions. "I choose to say a few words"
To express more in an after action; a moving poem.
I self identify as a pen—how and when?
We both bleed the same. We both could be weapons stabbing
at your side again, and again. And again!
But I’m not violent; I’m priceless—priced less for being
like this. Now isn’t that so priceless?
Rebellious and outspoken when my pen feels profound,
only when the right words are found.
And I’m actually funny, but no wait—not so funny.
I’m broke, but not referring to not having money.
I’m a joke, that I sometimes find funny. But in the current
currency, we sometimes fold like money. Easily at times
as a worthless currency.
Looking always for the perfect piece —well you’re looking at it.
Guilty of being authentic; point you finger out to say he did.
The poet who knows it!

Ghostly shadows, but what ghost
really casts a shadow—cousins?
The ghost and a shadow, still in my room
at the edge of the bed.

A ghost of unhappiness, and a shadow
of these lonely despairs. Both related.

Mother nature taught me how to grow,
Father time forces me to wait for it.
The Mistress of death would love to rush
the process. Brothers in arms, alarming the gun
sounds in my head—my constant ringing headaches.
Sister company, sharing the pain of a common
parent entity

Interesting family picture.

subtly, subtly does the depression
rip me apart- a part of me
burning, it's all concerning and
undeserving—unnerving under my skin
i wish I could be a different person.

Who am l, who am I?

I....am the representation of all depression
in the darkest thoughts, all chasing- not to mention
The deception of what is my self-esteem,
a passive aggressive; less than the self taught lessons
a dog chasing it's tail, in a ball of tears my eyes are
always fetching.

I am depression: a random whisper of sadness
this is my depression who robs my gladness
A quiet madness, maddening villain; a saddening
million dark thoughts- non making sense but just bad dealing
I choke myself on awkward feelings, cutting myself
with the sharp thoughts of over thinking

I am depression: who makes you feel like everyone
else is in their well order. "You don't have much time to
make something of yourself, you’re getting much older"
Pour me tears of cringy replays, poor me could have
done better. People who pierce you, asking aren't
you supposed to be clever

I am depression: making you question everything
in anxiety's language. You're in a perfect imbalance,
impasse- a dead end in your head. Cornered, cornered!

This is depression, in it's usual session, an unhealthy
obsession to beg the question: is this out of your
compression? Comprehensive over spending, a penny for
a thought-in the end to only self lessen

I pray to the Lord that this feeling doesn't follow,
and if so, I don't want tomorrow.

Some of us feel worthless,
hard to breathe living on the surface.
No matter what hurts us,
never forget what is your purpose.

And you're always worth it.

The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?

When we were young, sipping on cherry lip kisses,
with a blush of your tears in the afternoon
Simplistic conversation between as two, to seem
casual around your friends. Worshiping our music
on these random rock playlists, while I spoke of your
name, as if it were Queen,— giving you a reason to rule.
Bathroom stains of blood dripping down the black drain,
concrete smiles, drinking chlorine out of broken glasses
Cutting at our smiles; marking each other with bites
on our necks.

Boys with ripped jeans by their pockets; we couldn't
carry a lot of our dreams. Camouflage wallets filled
with an army of our last coins just to cover a ride back home.
Living on a small income, hoping for a good outcome,
and to not baby the night for each other without ***.
But every girl is smiling for a money shot, knowing they
could never afford a real ******. And the boys trying to protect
desires, unfortunately learning how to wear condoms watching ****.

I still remember when I drove ahead of the road, just to
get some head. Blowing away my brain with a few lines of blow.
Trying to find my dreams with a bottle full of sleeping pills,
resting my worries on a torn out mattress, in a city with no area
code. I didn't have much people to call on, whenever my bipolar
started to show; when you sold yourself short on your happiness on
some cheap night thrills.

Sunday blues became the sobering messages while you're
hungover, burning on a bush that never seems to burn over.
Never owning a bark to the trees we've smoked,— still I remember
the good stuff could be bought for just a buck. Still trying your
luck at popping a girls box like popcorn; hoping we can make a
movie with the snack. Still if I even had the skill to blow out her
back, my attachment issues will always have me coming back.

I could never apologise for my youth, till I die young.
But as my eyes live till forever, being forever young would be a
death sentence to me. Serving time on the words we all loved
to say of that stupid quote: "you only live once"

      _...yeah right.

Act as if I could sell dreams
to an insomniac,
Or selling broken pieces to
a crack.
Cracking skulls to think
well ahead.
Arranging my plans in serial,
on the few crumbs of bread.

Why I ask the Lord for my daily bread,
to fill all my ideas. Keep them fed.

Seem to be a puzzle piece,
trying to find my fit
As I play such games,
finding humour from my wit.
Dressed for life, suit and tie
hoping it all could fit.
But life at times feels so much
like a job, but I can't even quit.

I'm over my head at times,
wanting to be an upright citizen.
Beating on myself,
maybe because I didn't get enough discipline.

Days I'm trying to train my mind,
most days I lost track.
Picture out my life plans,
still feels like there's a drawback.

Pressing the On and Off switch
of my mind. Don't know what's current.
Haven't paid the dues of my life,
nowadays I have a warrant.

Relevance goings irrelevant,
if you're not relevant to yourself.
Relatively speaking, I don't know how
to end this piece. So here's the end. Oh well!





But no,


Why must the end of a cause
not have you all standing in your applause?
Lord only knows,
why we're quick to pick out the flaws.

The pain of hanging over your jaws,
while I'm handing you a gift of my words.
Like the non-existent Santa Claus.

Spitting words to your face,
facts of my case.
Who runs the passion of his soul,
for you to chase.

Anyways,

This is far too long,
to the point I don't know where these words are coming from.
This rant is far too withstanding,
way too strong.

So to you all, I'm now gone.

Galloping,—
a harras of silhouette in the night’s shade.
Prancing swiftly as carelessly as winds in their mane.
Grey smoke blows out of their muzzle;
like hot ash subduing the algid night air.

A hill covered in a dark following,
a caliginous beauty site,—
In the uncut grass, trampled by costless hooves.
I was the ground crunched by a night’s dream.

My eyes shut; nervous by the shaking lips,
and cold sweats. It was beautiful,—
it was dark. It was wild; yet felt so freeing.
I was it’s witness, and conjecture.
I was in awe by beauty, but left breathless by
it’s haunting perception.

So was it a ghastly dream, or an alluring nightmare?

Feeling extra nervous, when my phone battery hits
forty-four. Feeling low at the half points of my soul,
Train of thoughts burning all of the last coals. Fossil fuels,
going into being extinct. Less than active when I take so
long to blink. So over a thought, but only after I over think.

Did I set that alarm, the daily one I always check before bed.
“I hope tomorrow I don’t wake up dead,“ hasn’t that phrase
been over said? Who really cares, and why do the corner eyes
of stranger’s have such awkward stares? Glares of my glaring
insecurities, usually when I’m treating my flaws with such cruelty.

Disciplinary, proceedings brought forth to the circles of self
beatings on my every worth. Could never describe myself with
just a single word. I’m bent over myself on a road of life, with
the longest curve.

Where am I heading, when it feels like seven seconds close to
Heaven. All the blessings in a straw nest of Christians still
nestling. Going against the world, and t.v. screen’s weaponry.
Bang, bang, boom! We cares about doom, just take it as nothing,
and quickly move.

Onto the very next thing, and trend. Do what the t.v. says,
playing the longest game of Simon says. Like wrestling bears.
That’s a very short fight of pulling hairs. Ha! Being bold to being
bald.

There I go again over thinking ahead of my next thought.
Butterfly fishing, for the wings of a wet slippery effect, I soon
never caught.

By the way, my phone is at forty-one. Rushing to put it on
charge all night for morning’s fun. It wasn’t charging at all.
Well, don’t I feel so dumb.

Sigh! The one time I didn’t choose to over think. Now I don’t
have the device to quickly dot down how I feel.

Being an over thinker is so real.

Blind figures, statue representative of
a forwarding thought. Ahead of myself,—
decisions, decisions, decisions, decisions.
Too many of which, walk along the path of life.

To see as much, is seeing through the dark for
a hint of light. A sense of life; in dead still waters;
running deep of a depthful mind.

It's pen *******; is of words cutting deep,
a favourable piece, seemingly rightmove as I write.  

A sight for words, breathless at times.
Annoyingly simple, but overly complicated to piece
together the masterpiece of imagination.

So as I looked up to a night sky, it filled
my head's constellations of lining routes to thoughts.
In the end—a head full of trillions of stars.

           My ideas could be bright.

—in all of my ways, I'm not ashamed to
call your name. But so shameful of me to only
say a prayer when things don't go my way. Echoing
the final phrase, "in Jesus name" hoping everything
magically becomes okay.

Seems when I'm in trouble, I only choose to pray
a spiritual prayer that day. And I'll go back to sinning
in about two days.

But let me rephrase, "God loves you, and cares for you"
whether I'm telling it to the crowd, or secretly trying to
remind myself. "Don't envy another," says an envious
colleague, after he congratulations them in an overexaggerating
tone. But when I'm home alone; it's either myself tearing myself
with tears, until my face is torn. Or punching the wall, then
after using the other hand to cope with a little ****.

Actually it's a lot—a lot of the times I'm lost in empty
picture screens, till a quick satisfaction is found. Then after
washing the sins off, while staring in the mirror, and not looking
so proud. As the realism comes to light, as the realist sees their
misdeeds way past the dark.

Like a pick-up truck, hauling heavy loads of these burdens.
But we like to pretend our backs don't snack while forcing
to look like an always good person. In third person, we don't
see all the places you're hurting. But it takes first person, for I
to realise I'm inwardly cursing of those new struggles soon
to worsen.

To oppose another, being the face I choose during the day;
opposing my loving father. And in it feeling ashamed, and so
afraid to call His name; only when things aren't looking too okay.

But here's a glass to all CC's, raise your voice if you know you've
been that type of way. Let me keep you in my prayers; perhaps
you'll learn to speak honestly by tomorrow, than with a mouth of contradicting yesterdays.

                                                 ...don't worry children,
                                your father still hears your prayer!

My greatest poem—in every letter, creation
of new words and those profound sentences.
Line breaks of the metered stanzas, patterns of
end rhymes, All those wanting to be messages
in cryptic form. A wordsmith written in stone.
—I'm still searching.

In similes alike, metaphors based on everyday
pictures of life. Food for thought; in second helpings
of a secondary meaning. Allegory, an axillary joint
of alliteration. The alluring allusion of a shoulder
none present; I refer to being a connection. In all
other pieces written before, written in corresponding.
—I'm still searching.

In these continuing words—a couplet, in the irony
of a leading conclusion not intentionally lead.
But what is once read; is best to be read again....
a repetition. What is once read; is best to be read
again, what is once read; is best to be read again.
—I'm still searching.

In the deepest parts of a piece; the meat is on
the bone. To describe what's at stake, to be words
thrown at your face. A reminder the second time
of when we'll meet again. In puns of patting myself
on my back—these a self praises of being an ode.
—I'm still searching.

             And will I find my greatest poem,
                             ...Rhetorical question

The wettest of love written out of my black
fountain pen. I’ve got hearts to spend,
customs to save, and not a lot of people to blame.

Oh what a shame, in this love’s long game,
starting off as friends, good remarks,
All into permanent scars; how haven’t we
come as far?

Oh I wonder how to slow down, to keep on
searching for something not yet around.

Love!

Oh where do I search, with the possible heartbreaks
that seem to lurk? Cut and burnt, soon after I had
my first.

Love letters into ashes, ashes into the dust,
scratched out names, nails turning into rust.

Pinned down by the wrists; to hold onto pain,
crosses are instead exes. Restless, into resting
soundly in my death.

In over my head, thoughts are covering
my shame. I’m waiting patiently after all,
to fall in love.

Once again.

I wish a dream was easy to buy into
like a cancer stick;— dying for a piece.
Inhaling vapors, and blowing off
smoke in a puff of dreams.

Life is like a cigarette; an addiction
to living with feelings of regret.
Time is all ashes, slowly deducting
your frame till death,
And love consumes the lungs;
too much of the wrong kind,—becomes toxic.
To advertise the biggest buyers of such dreams
for a rich life like a **** cigarette;
To be honest with the kind of addiction,
being rich appears costly.

But I guess if I'm an old truck blowing
smoke, it just means I'm exhausted.
Addicted to the cigarette life,
whether tip toeing, or running towards death,
either side, do play it cautious.
Cos whatever end you smoke the cigarette,
all roads lead to death.

his eyes are what graze his meal,
while he pokes at it with a fork, like a child

she asks in a sweet voice, if there’s
anything on his mind…

with a full plate, leftovers of his love
for her, and an empty pride - he finally asks
her

“did you also tell him you love him, right
after I watch you both kiss each other”

splat!

her spoon crushes pieces of food on her plate,
my love, I swear to you, it was only ONE TIME

he smiles, but in a sombre voice he replies,
“funny, with such a passionate kiss I watched,

I’m sure the both of you had a lot of practice”

I'm just a man
fighting to be a man
I know my words are soft,
my hands, and skin too
Would you regard me a gentleman

I have a pretty smile
but always so shy to smile
I'm attracted by warm cuddles,
hugs, and kisses too
Would you call me a weird guy

I love the scent of flowers
distracted by pretty flowers
There's sweet perfumes in my room,
clothes, and berry lotion too
Would you think as me among cowards

I'm pretty much, the ironic pretty guy.

I saw a depressed clown haggling
at the flea market for balloons—

Joy marked down to a clearance price;
he holds onto second-hand laughter,
and a fragile piece of air tied to rubber skin.

By each nightfall he flees, on a rusted
scooter cutting through town, and his
balloons trailing like tired moons.

The crowd never cheered him on —
as he carried the silence anyway with him

Brush of grass,
the emptying winds of a clearing sky
I sit on my feet crossed under new Sun,
—a beautiful scene. Darling as you and I.

The first love,
best remembered that was found in youth
I covered you under the rest of my Love,
—a pillow covering. A trade of tooth.

Questing heroism,
searching for a knight of a tale of fairy
Dragons flaming voice he fights for a Princess,
—an expressive word. Impressions do vary.

So many ways to portray my love,
that of which strait tongue is narrow broken in two.
But in these complex feelings towards,
—I'll say it in simple. Darling I love you.

A red bicycle just sits on a wall
waiting, waiting patiently, to be rode

To be out on the road once more;
more or less a reason not to be left out in the cold

Red in a fiery paint; red fury blaze in a colour as bold
waiting, waiting patiently; not on display, being
watched and ignored

It had hopes of being picked out of that store;
to be out in the world with so much in store,
—to be so much more

Waiting, waiting patiently; once as excited as the little girl
that opened him out of that Christmas box;
To be found in awe of a child and their parent's applauds

But alas, as it's winter's pricking thorn,
this red little bike has to wait all winter, pierced by the thought
of knowing he has been left out in the cold

I took a glimpse at an angel— so beautiful;
I took a gaze without giving it breath,
I couldn’t recall her name.

And oh, what a shame it was,
Not knowing what to speak, of an outwardly presence,
I relentlessly chased after an old dream,
Hoping for a hint of conclusion— a foreign illusion.

For in spirit and in truth, —
I watched the skies crack open; splitting wildly
My sights, between a longing & desire.

Desire: the great betrayer to an eye,
When what you see, isn’t what you get to own.
Owing to her gaze; upon such a beautiful architect,
But some time later, it all built up another phased regret.

Angels that leave you out of breath,
Whether passing out on their lap,
Or passing idly, on Death.
    Beauty, is all so terrifying.

I've traded the butterflies in my stomach for birds
woodpeckers,— they seem to be of the groans
I have around
you.

tap, tap, tap

There goes the sound of my love for you,
flying south to the warmest parts of
my heart

Truly I am bird shy in expressing my love

Is this truly
love?

Butterflies are birds now

All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.

All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.

Stuck in my mind,
on top of my head,
Even when the love is dead,
it still haunts me that you're gone.

The spray painted kisses,
are tattoos on my skin.
I have your smile by memory,
still tasting you in my dreams.

Praising your body,
as my tongue's favourite song.

Under the shade cool of love,
kissing under a tree,
away from the sun.
All that's left is that purple flower.

It's searching for water,
so thirsty and dry.
Bending it's will to the light,
hoping not to die.

A lonely, pretty, purple flower.

Blossoming cheeks;
sweet flower kisses,
and butterfly hints,
of wings flaring careless words on lips.

The space of heaven;
between those two stars,
of both day and night,
And with devilish thick
structured thighs;
there's a resting lust in between.
None of which,
I dare open the gates as wide.

Bare chest; full of development,
and a warmth to my resting head.
Fast asleep on the pillows;
and silk smooth skin, as matching sheets.

Bellowing down the centre;
to a circle within a circle.
As with the precious silver of a belly ring.

Dark as the night without stars;
flowing downstream;  is her fine hair.
Covering a neck of amber;
scented in perfumes of a spring's desire.
And a shape biteable by first eyes;
as with the passions of a bodied pear.

Towards a great sized past;
and truly a large behind.
A middle line of strong metal,
as love's swordlike spine.

Tanned leather,
running young of two calves.
And the heels that strut the purest intentions;
of the feet of doves.

Perfect is a stranger;
but still a stranger on their own.
Never to have met,
perhaps of my descriptions,
the individual would show.

Bang! I surely heard the graze of conflicting thoughts;
setting a battleground across their minds.
Every word was in a blaring tone, as every
negative word the world spoke of it; was its
quick and merciless first fire.

Bang! Shooting down the innocence of
young, innocence that was held an infant—
still it hadn’t stopped man from killing them
in an instant. A snap of  a camera, of every violent
act played on the news, following every instance.

BANG! The gun grew louder to the crime that was
deemed by fighting for resistance. And how so will we
ever find peace in a world, if all our actions leave it
in so many broken pieces?

Young depression is,—
not feeling like I can move out of bed,
but I’ve got constant moving thoughts in my head.

It’s paranoia,—
of all those scenarios you paint out in your head,
bleeding out emotions that every tastes red.

It’s cold hanging feet,—
of the next step I’m so afraid to take,
bent out on my concerns and feeling out of shape.

It’s a sharp knife,—
thinking about how many cuts it takes to ****,
hurting yourself every day to see if you still feel.

It’s a smile,—
you show off a happiness they want to see,
a slave to the traumas that won’t let you be free.

It’s crawling in your skin,—
so reluctant to walk any further,
living up to life’s hype of jumping over another hurdle.

It’s feeling insecure,—
amongst the familiar faces in the crowd,
hangouts with friends but feeling like no-one is around.

It’s feeling lost,—
in a world full of so many others,
avoiding to be grey in a world of so many colours.

It’s all that I once was.

And as a child;
I was so lost in my
dreams,

But as an adult;
I've lost all of my
dreams.

Ocean lines,— under those eyes;
and lovely tears of their blue.
I took a bite of your fruit; cherry lips,
red passionate desired kiss.
Smooth skins of curves; peaches compliment
the plums. Passion fruit, a sour grape mix;
of bitter sweet love at times of you.
A basket case; I'm the fool neither less full of your fruit.

It's under your shoes; glass pieces of hearts
you step on with your high heel boots.
The cracks of sound are the proof;
of your quickened harshness to be my abuse.
I'm no use,— of not being the type used to you.
Scared of a cost to being scarred by love;–
so sacred of you, and all it's holy oxygen in the room.

The atmosphere does change;
but never more like your shades.
I'm stuck in empty pages; trying my best to read into
you. Oh of how the longings I have to meet,— on that
particularly day past a pens dreams painted in ink.
Cornered by love, if when I'm dared to walk on it's street.

The sweets nothings on repeat;
the few awkward hugs, handshakes, speed dating,
and those meet and greets.

Best to find love,— before it comes hunting for
me.

L-O-V-E

Looking Out Very Enthusiastically.