A pen:

a brush that paints a shadow of my past,
a guide of stories to lead into a future's path,
a maddening chorus of songs; all that play in parts,
an echo that shouts the silence of my heart,
a remainder of me working on myself to be a work of art

But I'm still somewhat unfulfilled;
knowing that there's more of me to write
To write of people, this world, and life
as I write better than a day before- I'm still unskilled
Always in this constant unending plight
cursed by words playing in my mind and a drive
And as soon as I've died; you'd remember me as being skilled

They say,
when you're destined to be a poet
chances likely you won't really know it.

They say,
choose the write words to make your voice known
don't be the antisocial type to avoid being alone

They say,
the future is what you dream it up to be
the only obstacle having  to face is only me.

They say,
The greatest writers suffer from the highest depression
Acting upon this active passive aggression.

They say,
You could speak a million words of positive
but they'll only remember the ones of  negative.

They say,
To be the greatest poet you'll need be  suffering through some hurt
maybe then your stories could leave the world with a mark and some worth.

Poet I am
But not strong in my securities of being such a man.
All my words scream out, hoping to be heard
Saying to be a Christian, sometimes yet failing to follow The Word.

Seeking to be heard and broadly known
When the whole world speaks of you highly
and all your works are widely shown.

Spare a few gratitudes to a lesser known poet
Why not share his wise words so people around at least know it
If I wrote a changing idea in the instant
would you at least show it
If someone plagiarized my quotes
would you at least call it.

Just please do me the simple favour
For this lesser known poet
As you excuse his childish behavior
And let him be a poet as he knows it.

Body

Let me love and care for the art piece
of your body- every pulsating touch of your
spasms. Jumping wildly; while washing
me in your spring water on top a mountain
of passions. I’ll spurt within you, from its tip.

And in kind; let the wetness of your lips
sooth my skin. Kissed by your sensual soul, as
it echoes every word of thirst, running down your
throat; chasing after every breath we lose in
a moment.

                       Still, let us not love in haste.

Amazon Queen

I gaze at you, as my sprouting rose in
bloom. But not something so delicate; she is
tall, shapely, and sturdy— my Amazon Queen
that keeps me in the centre of her rainforest.

As she lets my words water her floret by
their tip- its warmth and gentleness spoke of
a love so deep and fulfilling.

*******

Oh, how she stimulates my eyes,
as I make out with her eye’s persuasion;
my mind often rehearses how I’ll love her
in it’s imaginations- my mind’s perfect
simulation;

For our desires are much sweeter,
by every bite of her smooth chocolate skin
I adore her more than I would have
yesterday- to quietly bless each step
she’ll take tomorrow. And a reason for me
to kiss her feet.

Moist

Surely as the night is washed by the gentle rains-
I have these saturated thoughts, pondering how
she’ll drown me over another night’

As she could never
have the most without I in the middle;
her underwear feels so moist.


Climactic Prelude & Conclusion

Would you love to experience a climactic
prelude; a middle so sweet in its time;

While my eyes ripen at the sight of your
ripening fruit,

Oh, so sweet in its time, let me capture
and savour that juicy fruit,

For yes indeed we had fallen in love-
but let not that fruit eventually fall;

From its tree, to rot off its vine; let me bite
you as mine- to taste your heaven’s ecstasy;

In this climactic prelude; I promise the middle
is filling, and its conclusion won’t be short lived.

Poetry coming soon...

Really at most, it's just intrusive thoughts that love to consume
A force weapon of a pen,—red; as the after article read, is the inkling of inner demons demonstrating themselves out of my head
Amongst a night of inhaling the devil's smoke, painting ash in my lungs As it's not of doing the act for fun; or being numb to the obvious self harm. The burning passion in my heart is a fireplace,
as the smoke at times comes up and out of a chimney neck
To then coughing those fumes like a dying exhaust, exhausted by
a facade of pretending not to be as odd

With voices in my head...

Screaming whispers of a daily insecurity, usually when I
convince myself of not being belittled by the litter of *****
thoughts, that I quickly clean off with an innocent smile
Mr Nice Shy guy; someone you shouldn't waste to bat an eye
But the truth will swing at you abruptly

Things that all happen in the dark...

The sort of enlightening events to reveal one's darkest spot
Like those who act a little more holy than their holes in their
socks,—it's all but the stench of us all searching to be whole
But it's ironic though, that you need to feel whole to fill up a hole
And my mind is this gaping hole, that only a pen could fill in this deep abyss. But it sometimes betrays me like a Judas kiss, hanging me over
As I have an angel and demon battling over who speaks louder on my stronger shoulder

Poetry is coming soon, I'm just waiting for the voices in
my head.  All those voices of the things that all happen
in the dark

             My poetic demons

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.

Lift my eyes inside my skull'
Searching for the words I;
Can quickly pen down:
Write a Poetic piece,
And for a moment feel proud.

Burning,
yearning passionate love
tows, and tows of flame
sparks fly in the sky—I've been too
high to realise I'm still scared of heights
Being too sweetly subtle
and so good to waste time around a belt buckle

Oily hair, and ideas slipping off
a random thought before a thought
Mileage of the tongue speaking covered
and affectionate words
Going around tour on your morals,
floral arrangements in the scent of love
Could be sweet, but bitterly sour
not every pretty sight, is a nice smelling flower

            ...all voices of poetic prowess

Life's got to be a trip,
question is where are you heading to?

World feels smaller in bigger shoes,
99% of the time I'm 100% sure I don't know what I'm even doing.
And a percent of the time I'd like to question what's living,
Asking myself, "what's the purpose in you".

The bright side of life could be a sunrise away,
so of course the lightness of life is just daylight found in another day.

So don't pray for the day,
just pray that you make it through the night
And I don't know if you shine, but you should be shining bright,
All through the day and burning through the night.
Might seem all bad, but every good is going to make everything seem alright.

In between us all, we're all shining,
and in between us all are the lights of our hearts.
So while it's still beating you're still alive to shine.
Stop playing shadow games with the dark,
you should know the moon itself still comes out in all of that dark,
So learn to shine in it from your beating heart.

Everything is going to seem so different,
like a changing season.
So stop betting on the weather,
you might find your fall before you spring into the next summer,
And it's going to be a quick Autum before you find yourself back in winter.

Clouds covering the sky are only a blanket covering the light before it wakes,
So learn from the sun and do your best to show a brighter face.

What you hiding from if it's only yourself,
and what you running from in life,
Looking for what's in store yet barely sticking by the shelf.

I know we can feel unsure about a lot of things,
and a lot of things can overwhelm the best from doing anything
But you're like a dream that isn't based on rules,  so maybe you could do everything.

Everything that is, what you were created to do,
shining in everyone of those tasks.
The simplest of course cause of the light in you.

You'll only know what you're missing when you haven't taken your shot in life,
And you seem to always do wrong cause you're never really looking to doing what's right

And I really should quote myself,
but really this me writing for anyone out there listening.
Cause maybe if we all had wider ears than a larger mouth,
we could probably figure out what's missing.

And really these poetic quotes aren't lightly taken despite me writing them in the dark.
But you should know broken people are the masters when it comes to any beautiful art.

So let yourself do the work in the things that set you apart,
Cause you're not living in this world for another  person's benefit,
so you best live for the sake of who you are.
And craft into the works of your gifting to make another piece of that work of art


Poetic Quotes.

Poetic words become
food for thought,
Words we bite in.
Poetic words become
old stories told,
Words of reciting.
Poetic words become
loud as thunder,
Word's powerful lightning.
Poetic words become
as us all,
Words of likeness.

There no such thing,
As a bad poem –

It’s merely a spectrum
Of Preferences.

A mix between Adam, and Moses
would be the first man to walk through an ocean,
A Miss who knows all information;
can't be trusted for being misinformation.

A pen seal dropped on the floor;
gets picked up to be a pencil,
A high school dropout learning how to
smoke at school; is in high school.

The whether on the weather;
could be the forecast of doubt,
and this poem was so random,
I guess I'll just end it here.

A poet armed to the teeth
Bullets of words will bite underneath your skin
Street rappers threats of getting you clapped
I’m just looking for applauds, and a territory of map
Not famous for mixing my pieces with rap
Tipping hats off to those famous ones not being capped
But back to being simpler, Mr Mr do you have a reason for your demeanour

Life is not always glitter, but it does make it prettier
We’re all the beautiful creatures creeping around a world
But some would prefer—we walk around wearing fur
Life’s annoying like two babies screaming to be the loudest
And we have some weeds in our garden, disguised as pretty flowers

Life is a veld fire, in it’s aftermath
Black mass, black soil to spoil—consumed by burning passion's bath
We all have a familiar mask, the present person hiding away a past
All having a role to play, with a few long-running cast
You could live a season, and cancel out a few friends
Dealing with episodes of drama that seem not to end
We're making amends, mending hopes with bandages of faith
Always on the life journey of roads we wish we paved
Following in the steps of His life, truth, and being the way
All hoping to walk up heaven's staircase in the end

Clearing my throat, of a coughing exhaust
The fumes of voice, of this poet's words of thought
In this speech—a piece of arousing emotions
Let it rise to ear, that you hear it clear of the notions

Tis the Poet's speech, the Poet's speech.

Polar opposites – one side happy, one side not so much.
One day I’m fine, while another I barely recognize myself.

Fitting through the days is as effortless as slipping my foot
into a shoe; yet on another day I find myself searching for
that shoe, or I might even choose to walk barefoot, craving
the raw sensation to remind me how to truly feel.

It isn’t the pain – it’s the mere contemplation of it that keeps
me tethered to reality, a hopeful lost dreamer adrift in a sea
of daydreams. My skin may grow thicker, but the heart’s soft
hurt grows a bit sweeter; even as my eyes perceive life’s
flavours as harsh and bitter.

Polar opposites – the spectrum of being happy, or trying
to be happy in the skin of your own being.

I wish time was as easy as skipping rocks over a pond.
It would be wonderful if, with a skip, I could
effortlessly transport myself to the other side
of that looming idea, finding the promise of the
future waiting for me there.

As I take each step, I envision them as stepping stones,
guiding me towards my goals and ambitions,
hoping I won't encounter another heartbreaking
moment that brings tears to my eyes.

The serene green scenery that surrounds
me serves as a reminder that my soul is still
burdened with the stains of past mistakes.
Yet, despite the passing of time, I find myself
at a loss for words, unable to utter another
empty prayer while feeling a lump in my throat,
like a frog is trapped within.

Food for thought,
the harsh truth is the hardest to digest

I handle my liquor as well — as a well striving to keep afloat.
In the shadows the nights stretch long, and I come across a girl
with a captivating smile; her body, however, bore the marks of
countless encounters, of each man who sunk in her, a much deeper
borehole. Yet, she adorns herself with a cross, perhaps a silent
testament for both parties to start off by saying their own grace.

I’m seemingly fighting inner demons; as a silent war etched upon
my face — all the while chasing after every idea to extend this
human race. Yet, it is a cruel irony that the most profound revelations
often emerge only after, we have drowned ourselves in the depths
of unspoken answers in our cups.

And so, the clash of poor ideas and the taste of liquor lingers on;
as the drinks act as an unequal guide, to the morning — where in
the aftermath, the bitter collision of misguided notions and the
haunting essence of spirits endures.

****** drive,
a yearning of close when you're the thing I thrive.
Posture of a body built of a Goddess.
Nobody is perfect in the world baby, but I'm seeing you flawless.

I see something we could share together on a bed
When two wild fleshes come together to be one bound after we wed.

And as we both grow older.
A hopeful man like I could lift the weight of the world of your shoulder.

Stuck on the posture of your grace,
You stole my heart with a look on your face.
Before I could ever learn your name.
Stole my heart to leave me a heartless man. Baby you're to blame.

Making my point like a lost arrow.
Coming inside of you with such a opening of narrow.

Having you strong like a body of whiskey by the yearn of your posture.
You stole my heart and sooner or later it's going to cost you.

The power of words:
of how friends become fiends
Are we not selfish of opinions
of saying what we think without
Giving it too much thought
The power of words.

The power of words:
of feeling pretty and petty
Are we not ugly of schemes
to be the man of a manipulate
To force another to seem absurd
The power of words.

The power of words:
worshipping idol, your faith is idle
Materials won't materialise in the end
depending on their salvation
It all ends with the world
The power of words.

Prayed for those
preying on me.

I owe you my attention
Jesus you owe me nothing
You can do all you can do
I'm tired of being restless
When I can't see myself
You can see me through and through

Caught up in my affection
No one loves me as you do
I come to you in repentance
I just owe you my attention
Giving every piece of my heart all to you

Nothing is as substantial
Jesus you're all that matters
In the questions of the world
I put you first, and trust your answers

You're a gold ring, and a rose
Covenants you've made—so beautiful
All the words you spoke, I'm in awe

Coming back for your bride
Let me make her pleasingly pure
Coming to fill my entire heart
Let me clear space in every room
Lord I need you now—I need you

I owe you my attention
I am so empty, being a vessel
Broken as I am, you still give blessing
I just owe you my attention

Lord you have all my attention

In Jesus name, Amen.

There's a cloud—dark, gloomy tower in
the very distance. With echoes of heavy thunder,
and the growing flashes of lightning.
A cough to shake the heavens; as in the smell of
dew—it's due a season of the washing away of old.
Overflow; I speak this overflow. As in after the Storm,
cones the smell of growth. To wait patiently
on the Lord—as he is revealed behind, and of been
working through the storm.

You’d say it’s the last of your lust,
“Still would we stay strong, and not bust when I bust”
Even when the feeling of wanting to party,
comes around partly,
Hardly though, according to a recent thought, —
I’m a little box-shaped heart; of my love’s accordion.

And as soon as someone finds a nut in a nutshell;
it would be coming from a hard external covering,
before busting another nut.
A cruel notion that what usually ***** the most,
is the most you’re forced to swallow.

Just as *** sells; ***** intentions sort of smells,
—making sense of any humor, chasing after a laugh.
Though I’m quite convinced that the woman wants one
extra arrival, while the man is the first one to come.
    “You hear it as an awkward after laugh”

The feeling was premature; a broken timing for a
jack in the box—a story of premature *******.

I am not my own strength – nor am I my own words
I am not the sum of silver, or rich as the world,
Nor even close to a sliver of gold.

I am not my future – or any better than my own past
I am all of my mistakes made in the present,
And all of the things, hoping to come to pass
Nowhere near a love that endures without question –
Nor the calm; being a life of many, many scars.

I am the quiet battles, that tears praise my triumphs,
The stillness in inner storms, battling emotional riots –
Marvel of flesh, fragile code; built of miracle science
Living in society’s endless bias, where the little
You hope to give, is the hope that will be trampled
Beneath the heels of Giants.

A faith that’s ALWAYS under intense heat
And so many pressures; pressed and refined,
I emerge as a Beautiful Diamond.

You try to see everything beautiful in this world,
you've got roses in your eyes,— you're pretty much blind.
Those two pretty eyes, rosey cheeks look like the petals of your blushing love, — I'd like you to be my pretty bride.

The soft tears
not of sky
but of
a flower'
will to
survive

      Tears do echo;

Tear' sorrows,
joys, pains
and hope
no matter
when,
crying because
I'm still
here and
          
          Pretty alive.

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.

Fires rest under skin;
Blessed a kiss of Sun

In the dark;
I am light. ..

Bright & gentle flower;
Hand-picked by God

                   In the dark;
                   I am life.

Sorrows, I've carried;
but only for a time

             In the dark;
             But still I survive

Pretty Orange,
my colour is-
Clean & well polished.

                               I flourish. ..

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.

My pretty toy soldiers marching along,
Conquer lands. Tear down walls and streets with drums and a song.

By the corner of love, lining my troops to conquer my feelings.
Living way too long under the rest of a tree I'm caught up in shady dealings.

Never came to fight but we're in a war.
Blades hitting on blades.  Honestly blood shed was the most I saw.

The many lost minds but not ideas.
Loads of troubling days but lesser fears.
And as a child my best way to make any sense of life were the roles of my toys.
I grew up too fast to never have fun with the other boys.

Worked my heart out now it's camping outside.
I conquer many lands but often so not on grounds of my hate and pride.

Pretty toy soldiers, it's a child's set to play.
The troops gunned down by the short numbers. But living long enough to fight for another day.

My troops, my army, such is this war.
But it's not at it's end for this be the first tour.

Many of these tears passing by
They ain't too shy
Just wishing you goodbye.

Slept well on moonlight kisses
Awoke upon rays of day
Building upon the morning on a few pieces.

Guess I'm feeling a little better today.

Cries so long wishing me near
Like Death's cold kiss, I'd rather lose my own lips.
For the ticking time close to sorrow is that close to fear.

Take a load of life's bitter drink in a couple of her sips.

Life's gunning down on me with hollow bullets
Shells of her heavy shotgun
Till she's fulfilled on my despair but she won't be the fullest.

Guessing still, if I threw myself to the world who would surely catch me
A stylish life but I can't speak that fancy.

Her pretty tears, rivers of waters trying to drown me
Fighting waves of chaos trying my best to at least break free.

Pretty weeper, are you not my pretty little weeper.

Pretty weeper, pretty little weeper
Life don't be a another deceiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So don't prey on me.

Some live for the moment,
I won't be in a moment of motionless
Some hope for the right moment,
I'll make right to build that moment
And any beautiful moment, is all but a second,
So I'd never second guess myself,
Asking how fast a moment is gone

Principles, principles that are in charge of my life,
Be an ethical person, still be good despite your obvious bad
Living a somewhat basic life; basic truths that you'd never forget

             Do it all, and never give a moment's rest.

Whispers of tree leaves,
shaking fibres of the very skin. A breeze
creeping through all of the wall cracks.
Breath heavy not of stink, but cold breath;
a weighing heart of ice deep in my chest.

Sin in my bones, (from birth) weakness of
the flesh. Time is plenty on my hands.
Intent on the mind, procrastination under breath.

"I'll do it all tomorrow"

I recalled a bird's song as a morning lullaby,
rooster crow echoes of less time left in a dream.
Diminutive time; clocks going full circle several times.

"Fine I'll do it in the afternoon"

The Eve sets on the day,
as to kiss her Adam, as the first sun.
But it's the last light of dusk coming into play,
wasted by the nothing of planning to do something.

"Snap! Where did the day go"

Back to the start of the end, into the new
beginning of procrastination.

"I'll definitely do it tomorrow"


                                                     ­ Yeah right.

Tall glass towers; on mountains of golden lakes.
An island of ten million dreams; blinded by the lights
of life. Heaven is a time like no other, as nothing has
an end. But all of it's residents have met their end.

Phased by the breath of tens of labours; the works of my
hands. I built glass memories, so fragile of remembering a
tragic past. All that is wasted; wasting away in thoughts.
****** as my hairs in the morning. Some on my neck, of
having their rest on my pillowcases.

A heavy throat, and it's husky voice. Mmh mmh; clearing it
to speak into a day. This morning is a timeless piece of whisky;
strong as the first swallow of belief.

Do I...

believe of any goodness ahead of me for today? A chance of better wealth to add some weight to a wallet? Meeting my potential love; as they're waiting out there?

But when, and how far are all of these things?

Who are the fools to know; all of the wisdom of ancestors
of where they should go? My forefathers have been at this place before. I do suppose; that I am progresses living words.

Onwards, forward, towards, heading, advances, going to
the places of what progress asks of me to go.

If I could write out my pain,
it would be in loud words.
A sad song of anthem,
a Verse and a Poetic Prose.

The hunger for success; we might as well scrape the bottom of the bowl,—And if we're all itching to be recognised, we might as well have a skin infection. Battling all of our demons, but its more of a battle to battle another temptation.

My mind and I are post mates, with these ideas we're trying to deliver to the world on the postal,
Still it might close us off, a world that's mostly your enemy, can't really escape it,—so we keep the enemy closer.
Always trying to sound like I've got some filling advice, with every word as food for thought, and the chip on my shoulder.
But their hungry eyes bite down more than they minds can swallow, then serve revenge back on a dish always colder.

But I guess I'm the fool for being so full on being foolish; you could give a world a hint of your love,—But it will always be a world living so clueless. As we all try to live a glass lifestyle, for
everyone to see how we're living.
Making such fragile homes for our children, glass walls for boundaries: please tell them not to throw stones around where we're living.
Still these are the prose to suppose; smelling the intentions of evil doers,— I'm on the nose,— Of acting like everything I do, is everything everybody knows. Making friends with the name sayers who never remember your name; trading thoughts and quotes to butter up people with this modern day barter trade.

The only relation we all have, is we all love to hate; negativity is what we feed on,— positivity is just a bit of salt we shake on top
of hate on this plate, so it easily goes down. And ten days of money going up, is the process of you having ten toes down. But we'll probably have to go around in a chaotic world, to finally feel renowned.

Life needed to come
with a bulletproof vest,
Couple stitches and blasters,
really anything to protect my chest.

Gave you a taste of magic,
Sticks and stones in love—so beautifully tragic.
I’d give my world to be around your planet,
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?
A taste of line stuck in your jaw,
Decorating yourself—there’s a little decore.
I’m your centre piece in place of more,
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

All cuts and lip burns,
I was the very last—of every first,
Stars in perfect alignment; but all by force,
I was lost for words, biting my tongue; but not tasting hurt.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?
It’s a waste being young,
But adulthood is so painful—really no fun,
And I’ll be insecure knowing how not to make a girl ***,
Coming around to my place, and accidents of making a son.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

The high life highlights,
Bite size feelings, drinks of nightlife—so high!
Still scared of heights, and not having the right size,
As the killing factor of any man’s pride.
Why won’t it fit right, it doesn’t feel right, or quiet tight.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

Being around the block,
Waking up to the rooster—tickling ****.
“Where are my socks,“ letting borrow tops,
While topping someone off the top in slob,
Twisting your emotions, as you twisting the ****.
Just a tip cob—ain’t nothing wrong till it repeats tomorrow,
And there’s nothing more left sweet of that fleshy flower.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

Just two curious people trying to prove they're good at ***,
Just an excuse to tidy up themselves after being a mess.
                                              They’re both just a mess!

I worry about my family
before myself.
My friends before myself,
loved ones before myself.
Anybody really before myself,
and don't even worry
About myself.

So when I pray for provision,
I really need it,
Vision in troubling times,
hope I see it,
Stretch out my faith,
hope I believe it.
While acting a constant sinner,
hope I'm forgiven.

Times are troubling,
as is this life.
Hope seems plummeting,
as is this life.
Man is wondering,
as is his life.

So in prayers like this,
I hopefully ask to receive.
During my life like this,
I'm hoping the Lord still gives.

Provisions for those around
I love,  I only do request.
As we're down on the little left,
provisions from you is what
We need next.

Tended by him,
a sherpard of my me.
My human nature asks for want,
but he rather gives me what I need.

An open field he places as lamb,
led through flowing chaos to still waters of the land.
For very much,
the restoration I know,
Will always be lesser than the one he has given my soul.

Righteousness is the path I've been led,
for with grace,
Comes with him for his name's sake,
I've been led.

And amongst my walk through the shadows of death,
evil I neither have fear.
My fear of only Him instead.
For as he is with me,
he points the ways of right.
I'm not left behind,
for he lights my direction as a staff of light.

Enemies wish to feast upon my flesh,
still I table before them,
Unaffraid, as anointing flows down my head.

My cup never runs to be dry,
oil overflowing past my very eyes.

Goodness and mercy does follow,
in all the nights and many days how then do I cower.
The walls of His house,
are a place of the Lord forever.
For like my words,
I ask of him to always hear my prayer.

"Lord. Hear me, the voice of child,
tamed by the ways of you.  
Once before a Wolf of the wild,
he has made me beloved,
One who cares of his own,
the hand that fed me, The starved.

I am as a babe in his arms,
embraced by love.

Tensions that live rent free in your head
-I guess it's not a tenant

Still the kind of people saving up old money;
we don't have much for our early pension
So please don't be late, especially when you're
working yourself to death

I've a few times picked a bone with you,
for working all of those skeleton hours
Chasing a dream day by day,
and hopefully the night's result, is the money following

Life *****, and of course you can't spit the taste,
as our youth is something we have to swallow
And drink a little harsh truth to wash it all down

Don't forget to be social,
talking to peers about so and so
Who we know, and who pretend to not know,
but it's really stuck on your nose; as the scent of intentions

I do get your intentions, still listen to me intensively;
kiss your wife hello, more than goodbye
Be there for the family, the kids might forget to call you dad,
but more of a daily service provider- that's really sad

                                    ...P.s, a note to self

life, has had its few licks of me – to envelop me in its envelope;
a sad message to myself. but don’t we all wish we were perfect
messages from God, a bit heaven sent? to the people who worry
what people say about them – their weight of words; drowning
more in people’s words, then any piece of writing in the Word

p.s, a well written letter to myself – I’ve been trying to line up
most of my better memories in alphabetic form; while holding
a solitary feather. I got stuck at the letter A, to list all of my
achievements

hoping to steal time like a stolen kiss; conscious thoughts that
escape my lips – speaking of me as someone you’d truly miss.
as I sign a message of my life in the ink of my fallen tears
       trying to stick onto the side of hope, as a sticky note!

Cherished memories of us, on this old Spotify playlist;
my heart is overwhelmed with longing and lovesickness,
— a passion that seems to fall short in making me
any more patient.

I find myself completely consumed by that intoxicating
madness of an undesirable love; constantly lost into its
utmost and unforgiving potential;
...picturing me as your devoted psychopath, an
unyielding presence in the maze-like corridors of
a mind, and it's undetermined cycle path.
Ready to cycle back, and drown out a heart's love
in a cycle bath. Washing away your inner demon 's past;
while washing your back.

My heart is an eager match,  
striving to ignite a fiery blaze of affection,
and I caught your spark by your bright smile,
as I'd fight for this love when you and I are a match.

Then again...

I could have been crazy enough to imagine it all in my head.

I've been writing as an adolescent, as a teen filled
with adult lessons. Somewhat a mix of all my confessions,
and a touch of  my deepest depressions.
I use them all as a weapon, to **** away all thoughts
of suicide. My escape is in the words I write. The pictures I
try to describe, in all the lows between my little highs.

I question a lot about life—like why the talented famous
supposedly have to die so early. To have never aged poorly;
they only respect you now out of paying respect for your death.
To pretend they were your biggest fan, or closest friend.

Why publications ask me for fees they know I can never afford,
to invest in your royalties, and never gave a chance to your
dreams worth. I've battling all my addictions, trying to fill
myself with empty pieces. Seeing girls for only kisses,
considering getting paid for being involved with a mistress.
Just to afford to start up my business, to help those in their poverty.
But obviously that's not a possibility, but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

I've had my fill of gluttony, in pleasing my flesh.
In the thresh of cutting away my chances of being blessed.
Pretty am a mess—while putting on my face of the best, and
keeping a little pride on my chest. I still don't know how to dance,
but I pretty much prance in my room before I write a poem.
Switch between writing a little more or riding my way into
watching a little ****.

I don't trust my morals, if they're not on a placement of their
foundations. Ethics are kind of shaky, if you spirit is out of
concentration. I'm seeking for good relations, but hate to be basic.
Or basically falling over a girl who's just hungry for money chasing.
And it's so frustrating, when the right one you rightly push off.  
And now it's just awkward for you both. I'm not to good with my
feelings around pretty girls.

But that's me I guess,
writing late hours when I should be in bed.
Acting as I if don't really care—so oftentimes rare.
A habit rabbit, that my eyes are a black hare. Self destructive,  
self distracting kind of traits. I'm in dire straits, Lord please
save me from psychotic ways.

I hope this isn't where I die today. After having the usual
psychotic break.

Telephone, telephone
I wrote a song for a girl
but it was just a poem

Her name was ringing
inside my head, but she loves
calling me her best friend
The only reason why
I chose to come to this event

Shisha sticks in rotation,
Russian roulette with smoke
Puffing long,
eyes red and bleeding tears;
trying not to cough and choke

Crowds of lungs made of hell;
black smoke, ashy rains and
little black stains on your soul...