'Follow your heart',
it's been split in two

'Follow your dreams,'
life made me an insomniac

'Follow your words,'
my actions aren't the same

'Follow your goals,'
I can't see the target

So I'll just,

'Follows  my lessons,'
not to make the same mistakes

'Follow my God,'
he seems to know the best way.

Acrimonious ******; oh, to such a wanted piece of thought, falling carelessly as a leaf blown in a sceptical kind of winds, and with their goal of rattling me. The present fortunes present themselves as a mystery unsolved, the many spasms in a day, constricted by the extravagance of wanting to be heard; but the audience is so uninvolved

As I sometimes misplace my identity in my own words- as when I misplace worries into the formula of my concerns. The lessor faith in words, frames on the highest platform; in the endless echoes of a writer’s afterlife- where their once idolized muses, are blessed enough to be seen as something appreciated as gods- a Poetic pantheon

Creativity is like two gloved hands, that choke out the reader’s eyes,
suffocating them to see new found knowledge, in the loss of consciousness. As the stage is set; upon the tears of the world, being the opening curtains to such an encore performance; an audience made up of eyes hungry for more. The author’s responsibility to provide to them all,
a due course of sustainable food for thought. As the world feeds the writer the vilest of things, to in turn create something ameliorates in place of it.

The sound of love
how to explain: children in a playground
rhythmic play, heart skips a beat
screaming yay; nay to hopelessness of
breaking a heart again

Chase
chasing hands, gripping tag to touch
I've labelled myself a fool, only could
love sound so cliche as a fool in love

Strong not being my heart
Drinking a life away piece by piece falling apart.

Can't change a face born with,
Nor buy everything in the world to go waste after death and fall worthless.
Holding onto glass hoping to see through the world
By blurry faces everything seems less clearer
While being lost in the sky but not free as a bird.

Pause, for the game of life has gone out of play,
Stopping in between the middle, right between the trouble and sadness of today and yesterday.

Only when time beckons my heart to be where it is,
Will I keep to who I am despite whatever the hurt.
And stupidly getting up to face it once more from bruised knees.

Maybe because I'm foolish enough believing fully on hope.
Sleeping on time just to keep to my dreams.
Standing out the pattern of the rest and the other folk.

And find me foolish to keeping to the pursuit of conquering all trouble,
And gladly shall I share with them the joke.

Two fools
argue amongst themselves,

Debating whosoever
is the biggest fool.

A blind man listens
with his silly smile,
thinking to himself:

what a bunch of fools.
I can see the two fools,
listening with my ears.

As a seeing man's eyes
focuses on the trio,

His heart says,
a fool listening in on fools.

And the one above exclaims,
my children can be so foolish.

Can’t hold onto anyone’s time—
 their life is out of your hands.
But still, we all take these
   steps of being so etched in
somebody’s memory—
     like footprints in the sand.

I keep counting all the time I
  tried to hold onto the past,
 without a watch in my hand.

Watch the moment pass—
 tense, sinister in tenacity.
  A voracious hour—
      feeding off  what I didn’t say,
    what I left behind.
      Art quietly buried in my mind.

And all those things I thought
were gone— they love to
  reappear as a new regret.

Still transparent. Still off-putting.
But put off those mistakes—
  and put on the lessons.
Be beautiful in your time.
Not perfect. Just worth building.

They’ll write it down— the inspiring
  story of how you rose,
 even when time kept slipping
      through your hands.

Because theses dreams open the door; I have a firmly closed mind,
shut against the idea of leaving them behind. I’ve seen some desperately trying to walk their own path of destiny – to find that every path circles back to where you began.

Empathy strips the heart bare, for mercy to allow us to feel the pain of
others. In truth, we could all share the same pain, even those we
consider foes; especially them – for they too reflect a fragment of our
own struggles, but only in the currency of hatred; much like paying
a fraction of rent. Evil is built by the very castles we showcase in the
realm of the Devil’s kingdom.

While knowing what it feels like to be healed, it’s first by admitting
your own afflictions— darkness only breeds darkness, just as light
nurtures light; dignity is through the journey of self-discovery. "
Know your worth," the tale unfolds, and thus, the lives we lead shape
the pivotal choice: do we persist in our quest to uplift others, or do we
seek solace in our own suffering, turning a blind eye to the anguish
that binds us all?

We're all so different,
But we need love
All the same.
If the world won't change for the better,
Then we'll give it change.

For all the good times, the bad were more.
Yesterday was so amazing but tomorrow brings a sense of worry.
And right now today I'm kind of in a bore,
and sometimes I don't appreciate the little moments so I'm sorry.

For all the good times, the joy is limited.
Everyone knows what I mean for we're all witnesses.
And we all have a thought of when our good days are over. At the end who'll be missing us.

For all the good times, times are feeling low,
other days pretty slow. And the rest we don't really know.
So we'll see how it goes.

And if it goes to right don't be left behind.
If we going down low don't stay too high up in the clouds with a wondering mind.
And if it's out there in the crazy world; find safety inside.

Heck if you could, in the good times you'd act bad if you would.
In the bad you'd tick off the rest with your good mood.

For all the good times we secretly prepare for the bad.
And it's a unsettling fact, but don't be sad.
For the short while in the good times try to be glad.

For all the good times seem not to last that long.

The echoes of life
cracks bones, and may shatter us all.
Like a glass hanging off the window,
all are often broken and fragile.

In tiny little whispers
silence calls you closer to fear.
As it always knows your name
knowing who and what you are.
It's a voice within us all.

Life can feel so lonely,
as an empty dark corner
In that very dark, it seems no one cares to see you.
You feel so alone.

But you're not,
just a victim to a mental state.
A state you don't fight on your own,
we're a lot feeling let down by life.
Why we're really so down.

We're the echoes screaming
from inside ourselves.
Please. Can anybody hear us.

Only human; as it seems
Fallen into sin when falling onto my
repenting knees
Saying cheese to the screens,
stuck in a lens of eyes to capture my dreams

Was dead at times, when I felt alive
Questioning myself around the ideas of suicide
Out of sight, out of my mind,
still in this out of foresight and feeling drunk out of mind
Numb to the fact of not being treated well in kind, for my kind

Still that's human- at most when you all know you're a little broken
A clock for hearts; ticking slowly in the circles love
gave us for being too open
Proceed with caution; judging the proceedings of
reasoning your one focus

The forecast today:

Under the cloudy weather, it doesn't all have to be grey
It's okay to not be okay,
you don't have to picture yourself a perfect person, if it's not an easy picture to portray

It's okay to not be okay,
just be the best version of yourself day by day

It's going to be okay

Can I ask for a little more action,
with out really asking
Sounds a bit passive, so I try to
ask in a past tense
And this time around really *****,
so turn around so I can pass the time
******* on your front

"Okay," that last line was kind of dull,
and no excuse for me being so blunt
But could I still ***** a little thought,
and plant a bit of that seed, and see how that story grows,
And take you on a tasty journey; you'll be my main course

"*******," wait no, it's actually a golf course;
looking for a perfect stroke to get it into that hole
My little birdie; let's play, as we pave our way
into a concrete conversation before we go

Lead the way, and I'll chase your ideas like a plan in motion
Press into you, to prove yourself in an interview,
and I'm the one doing all of the reporting
As they say love can sometimes feel like it's getting old,
but I'm sorry, that's still old news to me

So we could chain each other up, but you're free
to do whatever you want to me
I'll be your memory form bed,
and remember all of the best positions
And you could leave the rest to me, and if I did it wrong,
you wouldn't waste your time to lie to me

I know, every expression of your feelings; reading
your body language- as you're my beautiful love poem
And in a spoken word of desire; what's there more of me
to say; to any kind of performance leaving a bang,
Let's make a little slam poetry

It's in this next stanza, I'll tell you of how
I'll dig into you; and thankfully it won't get so boring
As I'm feeling like a power tool, drilling a little pleasure,
to an eventual release, and to ease off the day's pressure

I turn you on; no not as a light, but let me see the light
in your eyes, taken so lightly by other guys
They couldn't see that glorious sight, that acts so bright,
a movie star, as all of the stars start to align tonight

"I'll give it to you straight,"
put a little heavy ecstasy, as you had so long wait
Put this love in a few shreds; a few times I had to grate,
yet it somehow ends up so **** great
I'm just trying to score, and if it feels extra great,
feel free to rate

I just need a place to begin, and the final
destination is how you and I will feel at the very end.

Him: I’ll love you forever!

Her: That seems a bit cliché…

Him: Well… forever will never die, yet we all must face the end someday. However, if I can cradle my love in the embrace of a forever, and perhaps we cross paths in another life, I would relish the chance to fall in love all over again.

In the vast expanse of the sky,
where beauty knows no bounds, we pondered
the question of when our union would take place.
Our eyes, filled with the salt of the sea,
reflected the longing within our souls.
I, consumed by a solitary existence, carried
the weight of my worries in the depths of my gaze,
yearning for a wife whose name remained unknown.

In the depths of my loneliness, tears streamed
down my face, as remnants of a past self lingered behind.
Each word uttered was a testament to the pain I held within.
While others reveled in the joys of love, I stood alone,
a mere spectator at the end of my own journey.

I stood there, waiting for love to take its seat,
but found myself lost in the pit of my own heart.

Fantasy dream; caught in the between of reality
caught in these nets of generation’s imagination.
Desiring self *** appeal,—only the ones who’ve got
the guns for creation. Violence runs the streets;
a marathon of the fatherless kids brought into the world.
Tell them not to be bent out of shape if you dare, but
any blow of the wind causes them to fold.

Tender kisses of mama; spoiled a child:
Rotten as blackened teeth holes of the sweetest treats,
a long while since a tame domesticated the wild.
This child! Has only witnessed domestic violence all
of their life. Stepped on stepfather; beating the daylights
out of them every night.

Seeking approval; where the approved are only the kids
who break the rules. “There goes the youth,“
they’d often say. Unknowingly the same band of troubled
young mother’s go on their knees each night to pray.

But you’ll just bat an eye away from them;
ignore a present problem, still looking to a future’s gain.
Or take advantage of a youngster, then claim
their misconduct being only by an upbringing
as to blame. Where are the men?

To show a son how to love and respect,
a daughter a hand of gentle protection,
Teaching lessons of wisdom never to forget,
not of their words becoming a weapon.
To not settle for less when there’s always a best,
don’t let the shortest sad times become a deep long depression.

In the end what will our future be;
if we’re not being the future we’ll leave for
our young to follow,
Don’t glance at it with wallow,
build yourself strong,—build that strong
tomorrow.

Good fortunes on me,
would be a blessing if I'm fortunate.

Must be dead,
living life right off the edge.
I wonder much,
into a wondrous thought.

Guard yourself.
The god you know,
when is he one, that you'll call?

When you fall,
how you rise depends
on what...you choose as a "pick me up".  

Even as I'm here,
feeling like a stranger out of place.
This nowhere has me worried.
Navigate through time,
time isn't in anyone's control.
You may lose yourself in too much worry,
more or less lose your soul.

Unfortunately for a fortunate fool,
I'm not at my end.
Though the road isn't as clear,
it's all for a moment by this bend.

Not as afraid,
fear is now a passing mist.  
The times seem dim,
but don't blow out a  light on a dream.
Always another goal in life,
you'll shoot sometimes to miss.

But as alive as you are,
you still got some shots.
So what you got?
Even a tiny little could be a lot.

Of all the fortunes that come your way,
many of which aren't the same.
Let's then all meet in between Fortunes Gate.

Broken bones upon empty sheets, fighting cursing enemies, trying so hard to survive.
Trying to find peace amongst all this chaos, yet journeying in this crazy life and along for it's much crazier ride.
Tell me the time so I can set my watch to match the time for me to live again,
Give me a dollar and a dream to lay a foundation on, but our end result of the future will never be the same.

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.

Save me Lord,
for thinking suicidal.
Knees bleeding of prayer, with tears
on the bible.
Life's always a risk,
especially when you're going through it a
Lone survivor.

Humbly I must confess to you,
not always at my best,
More likely like a mess, everytime I'm
praying to you.
Last thing on my mind,
is to be thinking about death.
Seems I've become worn out,
as my heart is undressed.
So if I'm speaking much Truth,
this really started when I was young and depressed.

But isn't that the world,
all down on their luck.
We're not that surprised,
probably now we just behold.
Still I know I'm not the only one,
to say that this round kind of *****.

Maybe gone is the world,
or rather gone are we.
Half a tank of faith, the other half
definitely disbelief.
We just need some relief,
you know the type that helps you breathe.
For when you seem to have
fallen short,
You're not too far from a shortness of believe.

But wait no,
I'm just speaking about myself this time.
Something I do on the low,
as is with this smile.
Cracking deep inside of me,
for the future it doesn't know.

Thin wire, overzealous leading to being over tired...
an over reliance on the hopes of being reinspired,
The burning thoughts; of a migraine constantly on fire.

Ten thousand shots in my head—ba, ba, ba, ba,
swimming over my depths, trying my best to breathe;
all the while in still waters choking my neck. Some live
too long...living a life of the dead.

I'm singing a song, better sounding inside—la, la, la, la,
It goes while I'm looking in the mirror, seeing myself and my
self enemy. Who's betting on their works, to seem like a better
version of themself/me?

Letting be of the many ways I try to appear calm in some days.
Hunger in my eyes; starved of the sights of true love.
But the dirtiest intentions, has my face fully covered in mud.
I give and give, but these returns are never enough.
But plenty are the voices in my head, battling constantly—blah, blah, blah, blah, as no-one else hears this cracking glass in my chest.

I figure we're all fragile figures, in the end.

Roaring dandelion,
nature's bravery
are the flowers still brave to grow

—in cold, hail; and the result
after a storm. Often bruised, split
and torn; atone to it's fragile state
it is not a slave to a fearful fate,

And if the fragile flower
chooses to be brave
what stops you too from
choosing that way?

Your skin is made of glass— cut by a tear
that  rolls down your cheek, splitting the
good and the wicked parts...
You kissed two versions of me... as we all
live switching roles— mirror for mirror,
mouth for mouth.

And when a lover kisses, you kiss back
like a reflex, when they get close enough,
part of your character becomes theirs—
and it loudly reflects....
I breathe when you breathe; I’m so
close, I forget whose lungs I’m in.

Like a spoon of cinnamon, just a taste
of you burns — always so hard to
swallow, but I do...
And our days spent—have me so
spent; spending myself into you,
sending everything I’ve got.

All of my kisses—are sent
All your heat— passionate scent
And somehow that scent gives
me nosebleeds...
That’s the kind of passion you
leave in the air.

The first time in the morning,
I kiss you like it’s the last time—
because it could be...
Sugar lips— enough to last a time;
pull a little closer, let me drown in
your stare —  I want to see what’s
lurking in the shadows of your eyes—
could be your wild side. Might be mine.

I take you late nights, for some extras
you come like a few sides—and I
measure you with my eyes...
You're such a grand size; I can’t take
it anymore— the closer we get, the
thinner it feels; the glass— it cracks
the further we grow apart.

Walls clearly out
the scratching and chasing
They called it a kitten's mitten
'a man with a soft touch and glove
As men would say, "you're merely a *****"

Round and round; those circles
of being like a dog chasing it's tail
Said a man being a dog, "just chasing *******"
******* off strangers, ******* on the front porch
'I have to mark my territory, a terrorist for girls
going to war

Still with the shell of surviving anything
cockroaches; festering with all cockiness
Tell me when the light shines on you
does that confidence start to scatter
A little pit pat into the tiny cracks of the cupboard
where those skeletons reside; a skin disguise of pride

Oops, excuse my running mouth
just exercising my lacklustre freedom of speech

Freedom at no cost,
an escape not held by price.
A slave to this harsh living,
every breath like chains shaking.

Freedom from negative emotions,
the many that keep me down.
Self known for battling depression,
freedom I fight for, (to be alive again).

Freedom from many pains,
heartbreaks, disappointments, many regrets.
Many things keep me captive,
none of which should control me.
Why then do I call them my master?

Freedom I must obtain,
from a forced burden as a slave.
My will, (willing to be brave),
The sweet taste of freedom I'll have one day.

Would you still want a touch of a garment to Heaven, even if
it kills you? Ten thousand steps away from Heaven – I could be
on my nine hundred and ninety nineth step; but the question is
would I get in without an invitation?

Would you still fall asleep, even if you wound up resting right
next to death – given a limit to your air, would you start to count
your breaths? In the end, I hope my eyes pray whenever they blink,
and my heart silently repents for their lips "good" reputation.

I hear the eery songs of sirens; my own voices in my head – that
are acting like background singers and the Devil's ****** advice.
Do I feel alive doing the things that risk my own life; mixing
desires with passion – a bit of too much passion in my own desires.
Twelve speed racing to smile, but sometimes I despise being so
nice.

Sometimes I'm a world built on lies; sometimes I lie on top of those
years long gone – the grass that's greener on the other side, I just
want to enjoy the scent of that freshly cut lawn.

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

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

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

Interluding stolen kisses, as fleeting thoughts
traverse the corridors of time; often acting less
of our true selves in a desperate bid to win the
affection of those we hope to love - to be loved
But all bets are off, once the cards are laid bare
upon the table – as the choice to remain or depart
hinges on how long you are willing and able.

But if I'm falling, dreaming, waiting... in a caged
thought; plotting, scheming, believing that one's
love should also keep its word; can it truly hold
more weight than those three burdensome words?

And I hope they aren’t words more so said, less
expressed, or expressed in public, but having no
real private impression — just making up stories
for the press, as the headline reads you've been
pressing all my wrong buttons, I'm pressed.
"I love you," if that is your declaration, I guess –
as some loves are just for period of time; acting
as an interval. But also, the ones that are so hard
to forget. But I wouldn’t remember you as a lover,
but someone who was once a friend - just friends.

__

Genuine friends are much rarer than the fingers on
one hand — as only a handful can be counted upon.
They could be as numerous as the stars scattered
across a moonlit expanse, yet only a select few truly
cast their glow upon our lives.

Tucked away smile;
biting cheek, and a little cheeky gaze

"we can still be friends"
he bravely chose to say

Benefitting mostly from your company,
just to have somebody, but not a someone
just to have something, but from it nothing...

.

An X on all of your thoughts,
knowing full well he still crosses your mind.
And I'm really just parked outside,
waiting quietly in your friendzone.

Given my intentions and ideas,
aren't as big as my fears
I'd hate to be the very next one
to fill your eyes with more tears.

Waiting patiently,
being the shoulder to cry on
The one you rely on,
and being there so emotionally.

As is this place, the one I'm at.
I tell you to breathe,
you tell me to relax.
Pretty sure I've done more than that,
in the friendzone right from the very past.
Meaning I'll never ride shotgun in your life,
so I'll just be chilling in the back.

"We're just two friends"
The pain of which never ends.

Before there was EVERYTHING
–there was NOTHING

A quiet void of endless,
POTENTIAL

And in that nothing,
–there was CHAOS

If God isn't your EVERYTHING
–then you are left with NOTHING

And to exist in such a state,
is to dwell in CHAOS!

A heart can be stolen; a heart swollen, — it could be a crime  to love; and a love to be much bigger than you can handle That twists at every idea of thought; words to say fittingly,  knocking at your heart’s door; blindly searching for that handle.  

Love is blind; to not see the RED FLAGS  in the daylight,  its wild too; a creature parading ecstasies at night —a bat in hindsight; while batting an eye at every swing  of love you make. Sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss,  and feel like you’ve made another mistake.
  
When two lovers meet; I’m reminded of their love  being a piece of steak,— it could be tender, the feelings  too raw, or too tough to chew on the other’s words Whenever they get under your skin; don’t speak a reply in vain.  

For love is joy, love is bliss, love is curiously strange,  love can be hate, and more so bring you great pain What would the world be, if love never existed in the first place?

A story of an edible piece,
food for thought to make you think.

I cut a pear in half,
and admittedly had a pair.
My two bananas friends broke up,
something I'd like to say was, "a banana split".
My peach friend proposed an idea,
but we don't listen to the peach pitch an idea.

Later on that day I chased
a man for being so annoying.
Told him to "go",
and boy did that mango.

I think his name was Barry,
told him it was the last straw.
So I yelled, "it's the last Strawberry".

Afterwards I was late,
for a romantic dinner with a fruit.
(It was a date).

Along the way,
I bumped into a  group of immature grapes,
funny because they were quick to wine.
I thought to myself, "what a bunch of sour grapes"

I noticed a doctor walking up to me,
and I felt really uncomfortable.
So I grabbed an apple and threw it at him,
to keep that doctor away today.
Next I noticed a pinning apple,
which had me thinking, "what a pineapple".

By the end of my story,
my date didn't go so well.
She ordered a coke. And I wanted to seem extra healthy,
So I ordered a fruit cocktail.

She left me alone, not before pouring out
her infatuations towards me.
To be honest, I thought that was just
a silly fruit crush.

That day I had enough of fruit.

I just pray she doesn't have an older brother,
he might beat me to a pulp.

I know the guiltiness of a dusty Bible
Brown specks slipping off my *******
Diminishing into my morning coffee,
To make the blend taste a whole lot bitter

Empty sentiments; too deep to be openly cast-off,
Once of someone who had the heart to their devotion
Nowadays it had proved heartless;- so fruitless:

Still a tree is judged by its fruits.

I. Ignition (1st Gear)
We built this bond with bolts and wires,
not warmth. Call it a connection— but it
was code, calibrated smiles and pre-programmed
concern. You turned the key, and I came alive
Just long enough to move when you needed motion.
____________

II. Drive (2nd Gear)
We were just motorheads, revving louder than we felt.
Not riders—just parts in motion. Fueling the ride,
but never the journey. You drove me— not toward a
future, but to the edge, where metal meets rust, where
trust wears thin. Your “drive” was reserved for those
who mapped your ending in their eyes— those who
promised arrival, but never shared the breakdowns.
____________

III. End (3rd Gear)
But not everyone is there for the real ride.
Only a few stayed when the wheels locked
and the road curved off course. So if this message
reaches you— the ones who truly cared— know this:
you weren’t just passengers. You were the engine.

Today I woke up feeling quite fulfilled today
...haha, yeah right.
But let's pretend I was a glass of water in the eyes of an optimistic,— I'd be half full, right?
Still if I ever said that enough times in this negative world, they'd all say I'm always so full of myself, right?

Till all the tears fall on the broken petals of time,
painting a somber picture of loss and longing,
it will be a beautiful tragedy meeting me at the end.
The sorrow felt by those left behind when death
inevitably comes is like a haunting silence that echoes
through the hearts of your loved ones, a symphony of grief.

However, when my own time comes to an end,
I hope that my eyes will close on the dreams
that fueled my passion and ignited the fire within me.
May my departure from this world serve as a poignant
reminder that a once known man, though perhaps overly
passive, can still leave behind a legacy that inspires
and resonates with others, even in his ill fit demise.

Constant wrinkles in their eyes,
These eyes that have seen a world's ***** laundry
All of which has been rinsed in the tears of time,
An ungodly sight; so long and behold
As you've lived your life by an act, without a role
Preying on your failures, and worshiping them as a Lord.

Life is but a place of all the prettiest butterflies,
Burning red; and dangerously bright as the desires in an eye
We all fail to see anything less important, than what makes
Us seem much more important, than all others in our lives
Death will always be that whisper, that only the dead
Will truly know what it speaks
And as the piece of yourself tears itself away from mortal flesh;
I do pray you find an immortal peace.

You'll soon be forgotten in due time,
Wiped away from existence, as we wipe away your memory
With a smile over your life, in these soon to be funeral tears.

                                                I fear I must bid you all goodbye.

I knew a girl —weathered by the kind of life that
doesn’t  warn you before the storm. Still, she tried
to keep a spring in her step — but smiled like cheap
paint on a fading wall, peeling off, little by little,
every **** day.

She told me: "We don’t own enough to be claiming it all."
She’d hold onto the hands of time like it owed her
something, clocking in for the kind of love that clocks
out as soon as it settles in your mind.

And I swear — it was always the careless water she
feared the most... the kind you drown in without
noticing —a pretty smile, a warm voice, the open
door that leads you straight to your own unraveling.
I watched her from that doorway — wondered which
room of herself she let people sit in.

Was it the heart —that wicked room where love
rushes in faster than you can catch your breath?

Or the soul — too expensive for lips that try
to bargain it down with sweet nothings?

Maybe it was the skin —that kept aching for touch,
even when desire left bruises where tenderness
should have lived.

Or the mind — God, the most attractive part of her,
modelling strength on a runway of thoughts that walked
out daily for the world to judge. And maybe the reason
her story broke me was because I saw myself in every
cracked wall she tried to paint over, and over again.

We are all just houses hoping someone might stay
long enough to know the rooms we rarely let them in.

I am the keeper of treasured memories spanning a
lifetime before, encapsulating the very essence
of cherished moments, both big and small.
From the innocence of childhood to the adventures of youth,
I hold them close, everpresent in my thoughts.
Each memory acts as a conduit, allowing me to revisit
the triumphs, the challenges, and the growth that have shaped me.
These memories form the tapestry of my existence,
reminding me of the paths walked and the lessons learned.

Moreover, I embody a bittersweet nostalgia for the near
future, anticipating the moments yet to come with
a blend of excitement and wistfulness.
The familiar ache of longing for milestones yet to be reached,
dreams yet to be fulfilled, and connections yet to be formed.
And in this liminal space of the present, I find solace
and delight in envisioning the possibilities that lie
just beyond the horizon.

In me, the echoes of the past and the whispers
of the future converge. I exist as a bridge between what
has been and what is yet to be.
In every sense, I am a living testament to the
beauty and complexity of the human journey.

Garden roses
my heart is a bunch of thorns,

Sweet white Lillie
my love is of ornamental peace,

Oh my Aster
the brightest star in the dark,

My sweetest Daisy
so affectionate sweetness of your hope,

These tulips are such
a touch of my purple violence,

For blue Iris
is stuck inside of my shadowy eye,

In this paradise,
please my dearest children, keep away
all of those weeds.

Oh mightily
seems a chasing sunflower
bending to the will of where light lies
My settling empty eyes, peering at holes
dug trenches burying dying seeds in heart
Does it matter, matter how long gentiles
take to germinate. You fertilize your words
in my garden; I'm always a mess

There are weeds in my garden

Stop me if you've heard this before
a sad person with the prettiest smile
Their cries lost on the fabric of a pillow
to pretend they're having fun;
He sniffed a line of salt
—stuffed rocks in his chest, it grew a rose
black rose, scarred and charred by being in the sun
He pours out his heart, the words come out as jokes
or to those listening with uninterested ears
They can't hear my pain

There are weeds in my garden

Who to cry to cry
when you've been told you've cried enough
always told to man up. Put your chest out;
you're no excuse to admit you're cut up
like a flower head cut from the source
So much to express, but so little words
so little time, so little time, so little reason
to fake a smile

There are weeds in my garden

Choked
my slurry words, speaking slurs
running words into another chasing dreams
pursuing success in less than successful ways
cheering for others jeering back at you
No excuse to cry, but just tears watering my garden
r.i.p to weeds ripped out of my garden
                             only for a moment.

Open to the mesmerizing sight of love, I would fervently pursue the captivating idea all on my own, like a lone wolf relentlessly hunting down its prey. With a predatory grace, I would skillfully stalk you, my innocent deer,—
In this unspoken forest of the night's serenade, where the moonlight casts ethereal shadows upon the earth, I find myself compelled to howl at the songs of their mysterious silhouettes. With an uncontainable excitement building within me, I carry a devilish grin that tugs at the corners of my lips, anticipating the moment when I can unleash a torrent of words, forming a sentence that will not only capture your attention but also leave an indelible impression on your soul.

My words, like white-water rapids crashing against the rocks, will bite down on your ear with a playful yet alluring intensity. They will weave sentences that touch the deepest recesses of your mind, evoking emotions that you never knew existed within you. Like a gentle caress that ignites a fire, my words will tickle your pleasure, awakening desires that have long been dormant.

With every beat of my heart, I am driven to explore the uncharted territories of love with you. Together, we will delve into the depths of passion, traversing treacherous landscapes of vulnerability and trust. Your heart will become my sanctuary, a place where our love can flourish and grow, protected by the fierce and unwavering loyalty of a wolf...
your gate wolf, forever vigilant in protecting the sanctity of our shared connection.