_

To pit me against these holes of a mind —
a spiralling pit of contemplation; the value of words
Proclaiming to this ruin of yourself —  
calling her mine; this intellect is a field of mines.

And I must warn you,
should the mind veer to the left,
while the heart strays to the right,
It heralds nothing but your own demise.

I'm just a representation of expression, feeling
so unexpressed. The presentation; outlines me
as part of the Depressed.

A manifest; label me an outcast. In a commonplace;
so void of it's heart. Commonly known as the ones
not meant to last.

But I trumpet truths; indulging in those lost souls.
To voice the voiceless, speaking of their all.

All of your worth.

Trampled down by the world's self doubt, it tells
me; 'you can't and will fail to do.'
While I'm only trying to figure a lot of things out.

Casting out two ears; to be in an empty silence,
letting this world try it's all to speak.
Being part of a world's mountainous worries,
forcing any to they peak.

My past mistakes and all missteps, are senseless in
the troubles of all the days long gone.
Even when I had all the necessary preps.

Life wasn't painted to always make a lot of sense.

But let me voice all the depressed. To those now
gone silent; without their freedom to be expressed.

We're just all the Depressed.

There's a life of a show, not on the road
where you always know where to go
Crying rivers in your eyes, but you still
have to catch another day, of life's chaotic flow
Told to act right, but you don't know your role,
trying to fit in everyone's shoes; that stained yourself
and scuffed up your soul

Driven into destiny's twine, you try and try,
caught in the ties of a victorious lie
A glorious ugly sight, pinned into you mind,
as you stuck needles in your eyes
As I've seen a buttoning of a sea; fasten into a chest
and drifting away, as you took that dive- trying to survive

And in the night; the stars called me softly,
under a yellow moon, in my highs of emotions all so lofty
In a perfect silence I hear so loudly; choking in the mornings
rushing to me, as when you first drink is bitter cup of coffee
In the shadows of my alarm in these lucid dreams,
the ghosts of those incomplete stories, start to haunt me

Always so antsy; I just keep on searching for answers,
chasing circles inside a box, and counting on my chances
With all of my advances, I'll still slave away my time to
what I always must do- but never to call these despairs
my masters

People would say we don't matter,
we don't belong and there's no place for us. They may call us so many things, so many names, but they don't know who you really are.

And better yet what you are.🍂

The words of their mouths shouldn't define your actions, and your actions based on getting a good word out of their mouths.
They've labelled you different and strange. They don't understand us, and for a while we didn't even understand ourselves too.

So we lived in their shadows hoping for a glimpse in their light.
But the very light we desire is the light within us.

Let it shine brightly, as it freely can and will. 🌞

Our tears💧💧 hold so many chapters, and every drop cultivates this land to grow another story.
Our legacy isn't dead in the wind🍃, but heard in these stories that blow into every ear of men and women. 👂👂

You're not defined by their definitions, so don't defy yourself in their image. Everyone is a painted portrait, and a brushstroke away from being a masterpiece.

So paint away. 🎨

Let that pain they gave you be your drive to stand above the hurt.
Let the distasteful words they say urge to find the taste of freedom
Let the hate of men push you closer to love,❤
that it becomes the only thing you return. 💌💌

Man has fallen short, but we haven't fallen short from our uniqueness,
Man has mistreated us like we're nothing of equals
Still man can never forget that we're all but people.✋✋✋

So people, be as you are as people.

And us The Different we'll be as different as we are,
and make the difference in this world.

We are The Different.

Abandoned, the dreams unspoken,
of a brilliant mind, forsaken in the
depths of despair and solitude.

A tale so grand, built on deceit,
with each step forward met by stumbling blocks
and shadowy whispers of doubt.
Success, like a towering mountain,
stood within reach, yet remained elusive
and incomplete, leaving a taste of bitter
disappointment on the tip of the tongue.

The tongue itself, a rope of words,
intricately woven with grace, possessed the
power to bind souls together in its sweet embrace,
forging connections that could withstand the test of time.
Like a skilled puppeteer, it guided conversations
and shaped relationships, allowing the exchange
of ideas and the expression of deep emotions.

And amidst the silence of unspoken dreams,
the whispers of unfulfilled potential, the tongue
held the key to unlocking hidden truths and
unspoken desires, bridging the gap between
the heart's desires and the outside world.

In its magical dance of words, it revealed both
the vulnerability and strength of the human spirit,
weaving a tapestry of stories and experiences that
echoed through the ages.

The end of tongue ~
          a tip of wisdom
The end of pen ~
          a piece of which written
The end of middle ~
          a finger sign curse
The end of lips ~
          a favourable kiss lost for words
The end of time ~  
          a first breath of life, a first too death
The end of love ~
          a person seen object, feelings lost depth
The end of oceans ~
          a wave hello of new tides
The end of day ~
          a moment anew arises

      The end isn't always the end
          but just the beginning of another

I am weightless in the breathlessness of my own soul;
where I wake up every part of myself – piece by piece.
Life is the length you live, until you die – measuring
it risk by risk.

My soul is amiss, where I aim my mark on giving
out good remarks. But I must admit, sometimes it’s
all just a miss.

Yes, I am this candle of love, burning fiercely in my heart.
But where I burn from its wick; my heart is fiercely wicked.
And I play out the cast of my feelings – but, why do I have
to act them out as an armed hand; protecting my very own
insecurities, held in a daily ***** cast?

And in all the beautiful things I can see, I quickly fish
for ideas. Afterwards, I cast my net to grab onto dreams –
still I need the fires of His love, for my soul can easily fall
asleep. For our beds are our testing graves, and after your
final resting place, where will you end up in the End of days?

Making appearances; in all of the experiences in this crazy
life. Sigh! I can't wait for the end of the show; the curtain
call to their standing applauds. "Oh what a show"

Raise up the glass; and let's forget about the past in this night,
like it was all our last. I sit back and laugh; smiling about the
few true friends I can count on my hand. I'm a slave to the trend;
of dreaming about the beginning to my end.
I've never been to the end of my life's journey, but it's a place I'll one day have to go. "Oh what a show"

The caught in between moments; running cameras, except in these darkest moments. At times feeling like the loneliest. Cheesy writings; melting on the knobs of being the corniest. And I'm about to be the bomb in the near future; with my successes about to blow. "Oh what a show"

Telling all of my kids, "there's a couple of girls I should have kissed." Kiss them goodnight ; after telling them my life's story
just for me relive. Give them grief in the morning; when Papa
can't wake up on his feet. And how I die, better be the same way
I lived. In peace. My death would be my family's low, but a higher place is where I must go. "Oh what a show"

So here's my final curtain call. I hope they'll all enjoy that show.
Holding weight on the wait to give their applauds. Hold onto
yourself, your words, your all and soul. Let me say my final goodbyes; just before my time to go.

And let me give them all a show.

The stars fall, as angels dance in the skies;
spinning twines of time—around a turning world.
This turn of the Lord, is the Rapture to soon come,
dawn present as where the Son walks the earth again.
Earthquakes, and colliding planets. I witnessed all's
Judgement day.

As pieces of the sky were falling; oceans boiling until
dry. The sight of darkness spread across all the land, like a
blanket swallowing all. And by the trumpet call; I heard the
rustling of that scroll.

The echo praises of the Lord, each name listed to be called
one by one. The final judgement for all. It was a vivid dream
of the end of the world.

         And I wasn't afraid. But overjoyed to meet my Creator.

Bursting open in the dark, the eyes metamorphosis
that bites at the primrose – as the yellow blossoms
fold away into the sun; staring at dry tears…
that familiar drought of words to cater for growing
younglings; walking them down the path for better days

The lands bloom with industrialization for the work
of poverty’s hands - stretched black fingers across
to anyone who tries to bring crime to end; also stained
by doing such crimes to make end’s meet, of those fathers
who hustle all day on the street: called out as deadbeats
even when their fill their bellies with meat

All of which are the eyes filled with hidden lies; disguising
themselves of doing well, “of course I’m doing much fine”
underneath a place of broken roofs; old newspapers to fill
the emptiness in plus size shoes, that have to last you the next
few years – all are insisting to survive; praying for a divine
help with stored up faith, to put food in their empty shelves

How once ancestors lived, of self-sacrifice to go out to
provide for your family’s needs- history does always repeat
itself — but this barren land bares no seeds, no capital to
sprout most of your bright ideas; while weeds of corruption
grows faster than food- feeding ourselves well into wickedness


These bedded nights, so afraid to pray for strength for
tomorrow; if tomorrow will keep us going for our strength
to survive- still the length of your strength begins from the
mind: what do you put in it to strengthen it more… turning
pages of the Holy book, or touring pages of the internet’s
standards of one’s successful appearance, of looking good

Plan out your actions wisely for the future; strategies on an
ordained path – the sweet coming of the morning is the
hope we all must hope to hold; for no one really knows when
it’s their time to go; the end is truly unpredictable- unpredictable
as the end to this po…

It's tragic,
search these hands for a bit of magic.
The spells and tricks to make pain disappear. Wish I had it.

Collective,
read through my thoughts of these message.
Collective,
of my thoughts constantly burning.
Deceptive,
the will of change barely yearning.

Soon I'll leave my doubt,
surely what's eating me in must come out.

Not done till my heart's  complete,
run away from the trouble. Lord where are your hand's retreat

I just need to escape,
holding odds of the stakes,
Shadowy mind stuck in the clouds.
Heart out of line in foreign states,
playing the fool out of bounds.

O' the escape. ...

As you reflect on a promise of tender hands; tiny
tremors shake your will to hold yourself together-
Tethering lines of kisses guiding your eyes to a moon
as you are a bright smile of the day, and the cool
whisper of hope late by noon

We’ve been lost in the yesterday of a garden filled with
flowers, that grow brighter as I look at their hues- I’m giving
my affection by an attention to pick at some petals: darling we
Both grew into something special; through a dream bending
my will to ever say no to you

Sometimes I get it wrong- especially when it comes to the
unspoken language of your eyes, daring deep inside my soul
when we’re alone to our own thoughts on this long drive home
My aim was a bit off, off into the places I think helps me better
into seeing your pain- but I can’t read your brain, measure any
of your griefs, or attest to being able to share all that you have
experienced

Still, I can offer my very dreams as an escape

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

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

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

Lucifer Morningstar,
still twas he kicked out of heaven—a falling star
As did his eyes hunger for power,
upon wanting to wear God's crown; seated on his throne
he hoped to have sat while the creation of the world
It came to the fall, tumbling the mountain of His highness
to be like or greater than God—oh the defiance!

As fire burning in his eyes, it now burns to surround,
surrounding his realm of a flames life
And in his strife; he rubs his in the sparks of rubbing
his likeness ways, by a whisper in the ear
A vehicle of fear, driving it into your skin
temptations of the flesh—a temp tempt in critical moments
"Don't worry about it, you're just doing you," listen to
how he pulls away your focus.

Hell would never freeze; despite the coldest hearts
present in it's accompanying. "Come to me," says the
call of sin into it's pleasurable company
Immeasurable, are the sins we commit in a day,
as even in an innocent prayer—whispers of previous ill doing
comes to play. Satan's favourite game!

His hand isn't red; but grey as smoke swallowing the
world, adding ashes to your worth
Solely to count a price to offer up for your soul,
And if the shoe fits, it comes with staining on the sole.

My prayer is to the Lord—that we as his children
don't meet up to the fall. Its one hell of a trip
To the bottomless pit of sharp darkness, that cuts your lip
Despite of the world wanting you to feel like filth
don't fall into its guilt—guilt trip.

Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall,
fall, fall, fall, fall...
You will instead rise in the assurance of the Lord.

I am the sacrifice of my own scars –
A case of my own insecurities; an awkward custody
Judged by the eyes unseen to my quiet depression;
As the voices are much louder in the silence of night

Like the walls of a lung breathing in and out,
…inhale…exhale…inhale more…exhales the most
I take in the ill spoken of me, letting out a smile of love

Part of the whole process; how I process most of my life
To contribute in the same fantasy, that everything is okay,
Or whatever…

A coat that is ready in days of being under the weather
A pulled face waiting for a fourth sneeze tickling a nose
It never really comes…

And maybe I’m also feeling so trapped –
But who really knows?

The ocean blueness—fades further into the deep
A naked eye—in the needle hole,
threading old skins of past; to sew away
The present self being a stowaway.

Sheds of tears—falling from time to time
The grounds washed—drenched in eroding thought,
as the tears of an experience's memory
I've experienced so many things.

Beauty that is glorious—beauty my eyes attestor to
So seen is life—tasting all bitter sweet,
heeding the stories; touched by them all
Scented by intentions: to vocalize beauty we'd recall.

Swivel politeness—coupled by lessons from progenitor
Wisdom must be kept—holding immense value,
spoken in tongue; lips impart to succesor
Should it flow naturally in life: to your success sir.

How We Must Bear With Those,
Possessing An
Origami Mouth;

Folding Their Hate Talk,
Into Decorative Speech

Tell Me, Even As Their
Mouth Speaks,
Does A Chef,
&

Their Own
Recipe Of Lies,

Taste The Deceit On
Their Own Lips;

What More
Their Kiss?

I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames,
paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth
My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be
tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music
always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo,
a verse that never becomes a chorus.

I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses
itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs,
quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles;
paramount and omnipotent.

My tears are potent, but never that important – imported;
as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through
brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home.
No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle —
I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still,
I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without
a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing.

I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging
quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.

there’s a garden in my chest – I pulled out a couple of
weeds, buried a handful of thorns, choked a sunflower
seed that was trying to grow. growing sick of watered-down
versions of love, my soul sneezed; cheeks squeezed to utter
those emotionless words from my lips,
                                      
                                                       “hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.”

In a garden where red flags do love to sway,  
Our pink eyes instead see beauty, but not the fray.  
Though the mix of colour are rose’s gleam,  
The thorns are hidden in a deeper scheme,  
And the sharpness can lead two hearts astray.

She was just a little girl who only wanted the world,
but you were too great to hold on,
So she took her pain and wrote a song.

She was just a child who wanted it all to herself,
but everyone else refused her beauty,
So she looked in the mirror and made herself a cutie.
She entrusted the lies she was told so many times,
but those lies were so unholy to the ear,
That it became her greatest fear.

And see that your the Devil she sees when you tossed her away,
like the cigarette you drained the life out of,
Claiming it was all out of love.
Would you still look at her when all the beauty is lost in her eyes,
when the world has left her bare with only the secrets and lies.

She was a girl left to bleed out while we all watched,
we seen nothing in her but just a pile of rags full of pity.
But I remember when she was so pretty.

So shall I pass her by like you do,
Or shall I be the one to show her love like the many few.

While I was passaging around;-
In an acquainted car, deprived of any hint of tints
My soul felt stuck inside that glass box;
Clear as a lucid bright day, to see how fragile I am

The glass in itself;- was reflective, so picturized
Boldly showing all the ugliness written out,
By the milage in my eyes.

The whirlwind of thoughts, are all so trapped, like a gridlock
in my head: red, green, orange lights flash as I linger on
the edge of despair. Just two hours past, I savoured my own
pride, now I drown in a sea of spirits, chasing a fleeting high.  
Let’s ignite a night of gold with a silver-tongued deception,  
As the evening blurs into a dream, I find myself drifting off.  

What drives us to step into a club?  
To leave pieces of our hearts while yearning for love?  
To grasp one last taste of our youth, before it slips away.  

I’m in the shadows deep, I've sought the night, with these spirits
raised and smoke clouds in their flight; escaping echoes of the
past, in fleeting moments, I breathe fast.  

I take a dance with demons- I pursue them to shed the skin that
I once knew. In twilight's grasp, I find my way, but in a journey
forged in shades of grey. I carry no shame except for the shame
I willingly embrace.

If I cry out to a gaze of boisterous
watchers, as every star falling out of the
sky, —I’d too, feel so out of place. I would
appear, a feast to Time, by just a second’s graze.

Truly startled at how short a life is;
even by the Greener pastures we so
meaninglessly hunt after; do know
full well, all the grass that grows so
promising; will all eventually be grazed.

And perhaps the purple envy I had
for the freedom’s worth knitted into
the sky, would all at last turn so grey,

And so, I would cry a river’s mountain,
upon knowing how much time I spent,
chasing after meaningless things in all my days.

For the cares of the world offers
only a moment’s praise,

Till I’m of course consumed, with finding
the reasoning to clarify such a craze—
I’d have no answer to my Creator’s name;
and I’d be so ashamed.

I may be patient, but nothing close to love sick –
Mind my twisted thoughts, to the twist of my hand;
The handy character, still carrying their tender wrist –

My heart beats true, to the beat of being so tender –
But it’s so hard, learning to love those I long to hate,
And I always ask myself, “can I really do all of this”

Yet, I don’t expect the purest of love from a heart –
A wicked place; a hollow that can pompously say,
“I love you,” with deceitful lips.

Actions speak louder than words; as your actions
All carry their own intentions, that you choose not
To whisper them all – only the heart knows!

My hands grow tired
  trying to hold onto sleep—
gripping fragments of tension
  while my thoughts drift too deep
to be attentive, to pay attention
  to what the world calls worthy.

I swim in the farthest corners
  of thought—beyond my depths—
yet I never run out of breath.
There’s freedom in this dive,
  in expressing all I feel.
This pen is the extension
  of my soul’s most honest reach.

Above a mantelpiece,
  I search for a worth I could call
my dear—starstruck like a deer
  beneath hunting lights.
And though *******, the trophy
hunter loves the chase
  more than the prize.
That, too, is a kind of art.

By genuine reflection,
  I still call myself an artist—
one still learning the form,
still finding the lines
  between vision and mastery.
The lessons are never done.

What I hold in my hand
  feels like something from a
Divine hand— a gift placed gently
  by a hand not my own.

Art is adamant progress:
unyielding, sacred, slow—
  but still,
  I move.

Lay me to rest with my pen in hand, for the heavens shall serve
as my canvas, where with each stroke of ink, I will inscribe my
aspirations upon their billowing clouds - visible to all who gaze
skyward.

And as the rain descends, may it cleanse not only the tangible
world but also the abstract doubts that linger in the minds of my observers.

Through the permanence of my written legacy in the sky, let the
wisdom I have gathered extend beyond time and space. May it act
as a guiding beacon for the inexperienced, illuminating the path
forward amidst their uncertainty and ambiguity

                 ...my hand shall hold this immortal pen.

I am the infinite glass- the fragile barriers closing in;
A weight of the seed nestled deep in the shadows of the earth—
I am the inaugural stone, hurled into the depths;
The one that no one pauses to ponder whether
I will drift or quietly descend

I am the cracked brick, a seemingly trivial fragment
Of a grander edifice; yet, my absence resonates in
The echoes of this structure's eventual collapse
I am the glove worn by a *****,
Shielding an outcast from the harsh gaze of the world
I am the dust that mingles with ashes, lodged in your lungs,
A painful reminder of each breath you take
I am the wandering mirror, capturing and reflecting
Your sorrows back at you.

I am that infinite glass, my hands slipping
Away from my grasp, and in this loss, I struggle to uphold
My spirit through the lens of your experiences, I see the entirety
Of my being reflected back at me- I am that infinite glass.

I know there’s more time we could have spent – forever striving to
close a gap between love and loathing; spreading myself thin as the
bridge I am. Parts of me still want to be your man, especially in the
solitude that envelops me, carved into twelve equal pieces; echoing
the essence of what we were and what we might have become.

Gazing into the mirror, at a reflection that won’t stare back; both of
us lost in trying to understand what they’re seeing.

My love for you echoes a silhouette; passions like dark phantoms in a
hushed chamber where you stand across – my heart is lost! What once
felt familiar is now scattered by a tempest, carrying away the words
that once escaped our kiss – two bruised lips, conjoined hips in passion,
now reduced to a mere bruised ego.

Vast eyes begin to flutter open, yet never wide enough for these tears
to escape their confines. I am filled with regret; I should have wept for
you long ago.

A wish of,
more time to have said this.
And in perfect worlds,
time travel is an impossibility long solved.

But as is the case,
you say a thousand more words.
Still in time,
they'd have to meet their fate.
Even with all the time in the world,
feels like you've never said enough
At their very last breath.

The harsh truth of time
which taught us this.

Accept things as they are,
appreciate what was before.
Always the clock moving forward,
Such the lesson
And with time,
comes the acceptance.

In the realm of desires and fantasies,
I snapped a wishbone, unknowingly
unveiling a fragment of my own rib, confessing my love.
My heart, a disciplined prisoner, beats relentlessly,
confined within the walls of my chest.

Yet, do you ever truly ponder,
amidst the sea of foreign kisses,
the imprint you leave upon strangers' faces?
Love may be novel to each of us,
but its pain remains constant.

A symphony of seductive whispers,
your ****** essence captured by my naked eye.
Yearning to be alone in our clandestine chamber,
I cherish the fleeting moments that remain,
counting the seconds like a demon,
while your devilish smile lingers in my memory,
before every intoxicating kiss.

The celestial longing in your eyes,
grows distant with each touch of your fiery thighs.
Please, refrain from sitting upon my lap,
for it tempts me beyond reason,
threatening to drive me to more madness.
I battle incessantly against the desire
to declare this as our final encounter,
knowing deep within that its all a lie.

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

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

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

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

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

As is the life of her.

Something beneath the surface
is yearning to be heard.
The voice of the silence holds an echo.

But do you even listen?

Even in the silence
a voice is always heard.
But it's not one on it's own,
for there are many voices in your head.

Which one do you listen to?

Seems Good and Bad
are clear as Black and White.
It's only on fool's wisdom we
believe there's a grey line.
But there's no in betweens.

Which side of The Line are you on?

It feels so great that We met –
Even despite we’ve come now to
Meet in a place of found Regret;
Today is the day that you finally left

That scent you left, is your Skin’s
Bloom of morning Flowers – where
We rest, is a Place you left a piece
Of your Rose

My heart still Stops at every Roadblock
Where our love was a crime of Two stolen
Hearts – in a place of liking, became a Crush
In place of a crush became that first Rush
In place of that first rush was the word Love
And in place of love, is regrettably Loss –

You are long-gone, Long-distance relationships –
Do they really work; when you’re Gone to study
Abroad, and I’m just a Local still looking for
A decent paying job.
            
Love with the right person BUT the wrong time.

I scraped the skin of my teeth
with the value of a man’s worth at market price
My dry and thirsty bones are out searching for a home;
the great times of stagnation— so stuck up on yourself
Lost the eyes of a keepsake figure; crying in your sleep
to wake up to another *******

The pole-vault over a night barricaded by
this indistinct glass of a scentless, texture less, limbo
Surrounded by well sculptured tombs; with an attitude
so stiff, you were born a statue out of the womb

Glued hopes to that fitting memory of your youth,
tucked away on the rack of time- like old stained shoes
Pieces of leather tugging away the past old days;
stepping so softly, ending by the button to start, that
feeling of achieving a dream that still turns you on

I'll turn mine on, to push a little further
through this time of doubt; a higher isn’t lost
…until all you despised is all you’ve got
this is the feeling to the lost, that don’t have a lot.

SKINS made of wires;
as I ponder the essence of existence
amidst a symphony of aired out thoughts –
a diet of wind chimes echoing in my mind.

Ideas resonate within me,
drifting throughout the atmosphere;
sunbathing selfies, even when fragments
of my heart are encased in frost.
Tears, fierce as hurricane winds;
my aspirations gathering the courage
to ascend like a bird test driving its
newfound wings.

These wire-like skins signify my quest
to intertwine with the current of an
electrifying love – the Almighty above
knows that we all begin to fall in love
when we feel that initial spark.

That love spark!

As we wake up every day, not really the same as yesterday and the days before,
As a man do we think we have everything or are we still wishing for a little bit more.
For some of us we have a family, children and grandchildren alike.
Well others are the signal ones, kissing all the girls on their cool motorbike.

But understand the fact we do cry when we're hurt.
Often we try to hide it, but Lord knows that never really worked.

Still I dream of us standing strong for those we love and protect.
We've had our many flaws, but those are just old memories we just live to forget.

So really what is it to be a real man.
Is it trying to act all cool and calm,  always having the right plan.
No,  it's just being what the Father up there made us to truly be.
To be the Father's of our house's,  the men to be the great eyes to watch and protect all the beautiful things we see.
So be as you are, the way you were surely made.
Can you not be a hero for someone else, for your soul was also saved.

Man....

Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
    his eyes tired,
          his silence loud.
He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
layered, worn,
  worn down.

To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
image they’ve
        painted of you.
I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
account for the fallen man—
        only fingers pointed,
  as they count him out like a statistic.

I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
   shaken hands with,
    gripped by time pressing on me.
Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
   in a sealed ***—
    no escape, just steam and pressure.

A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
   “Crap.”
     Not funny. Not light.
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.

Spinning round my head,
losing the track of time.
Like falling off my feet,
barely walking on the line.

Only feeling sorry for myself,
selfish as I am.
And if you're ever feeling
sorry.
Be sorry for the man.

For my greatest enemy,
is on the other side of a mirror.
As the Brave are always
little,
And many is our Fear.

Feeling lost, bit confused
Feeling broken and abused.
Looking up to his face,
Been losing hope. Really that's a plea to my very case.

Walk in my shoes you'll feel a couple fears
Dry out my eyes and count a few tears.
Alas sometimes I feel so much pain and regret
Still as You be to pick me up and tell me I'm not down yet.

Cause, over many years I would have felt like a searching man now lost
Came upon He who wiped my slate. A price for my life, you paid the cost.

The very times I may feel myself to be down and alone
No-one near or closer to ring a lonely heart on the screen of his phone.
But You, who dialed on me to check up on my broken state
A Daily Bread to I, always You to fill this plate.

Still, it's so hard too be as you are
As such a world would tear I apart. And with such a blade left I with a scar.

Be there many voices inside of my cloudy head
I'd rather listen to you alone just for my very sake instead.
Gave life as such to my soul. Here be I not feeling so dead
All mornings of mine Blessed till the end of Day. I awoke once more again from Grace given by such of You from the sheets beneath my Bed.

Cause all you would of done is show the terrible man such Mercy
Even more when enemies speak down on me. All their words as weapons to curse me.
Still as you are, could be all needed
My help and salvation from a time to a time again. Love of yours was not of such I would bend knee and pleaded.

For over such Mountains and Deep into many a Sea
Many things of this world in the way, still Love of you could search through all to find me.

And all for this I could only say is, Thank you.

Earthly possessions, earthly possessions;
At most they’re all of my greatest confessions

As the mask I so love to wear over my face
Is a mask made out of chameleon skins-
It grants me a shrewd changing appearance,
Camouflaging myself, to fit in with the crowd.

You'll fit the frame
of the picture of love in my mind.
How openly you'll love,
those of us with closed hearts.

Spearhead of words,
you speak and cut through me deep.
The ends of love,
are so boundless. Love language universal.
Who calls us all, "your children",
but a father who wants to know us personal.

Frightened and feared,
from the many misdeeds I make.
Who am I,
to be worthy enough in your presence?
Still, with all my faults,
my mistakes and misfortunes
You love me anyway. Any day.

A child, glorious creation,
servant, of his chosen generation.
All that becomes so different in the world,
your very love is unchanging.

Love is your art,
a masterpiece of your nature.

Maybe I’m a wind-up toy robot, blindly walking down this path,
maybe I’m a pullback toy car, moving forward by taking a few
steps back. Maybe I’m a box of random Lego pieces, building up
a life, without an instruction manual, maybe I’m just a firecracker,
exploding with less passion – so I sometimes add fuel.

Maybe I’m the one trapped in the castle; quietly hoping the world
doesn’t see a man battling his own dragons, as a damsel, maybe I
don’t know how to fight for myself, cos I was shown that fighting
as a believer isn’t a good example.

Maybe I’m looking for love, just because everyone seems to be  
falling in love, maybe I’m trying to fit my hand in everything,
to protect myself from failure – wearing all the title gloves.

Maybe, maybe, maybe – but all the maybes aren’t always the
possibilities we want. So maybe I should instead be more definite
on all the needs I want.

It’s like you plan to feed yourself with time
but never take any seconds. And I swear —
you could hear me second-guessing
myself over a plate full of food for thought,
just trying to feed a little of my ego. And it takes
a while to finish expressing myself — so let me take
the express train on any passing train of thought.
Cos it’s a full course — learning how to be well fed
in a world where everyone’s trying to make bread
while praying for that daily bread.

A man does all that he can for himself, before he
even says Amen! And all men are expected
to have themselves in order — but never given
the time of day to order the meal that fills their worth.
Because most of that time gets spent spending on
somebody else’s worth.

And sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it at all.
There’s a man who regrets giving it all to a girl
who became somebody else’s girl…that sentiment,
doesn’t only apply to him giving his all to girls.

—He gave everything to a seemingly self-fulfilled
world! And that meal is always so cold...

Skin tone; like bright pearls under the sun.
Standing straight hairs by the goosebumps of a touch.
Chills down the spine; a travelling sensation to her curled toes.
The kiss of morning, with a hint of coffee breath. Dry crusty
toothpaste in the corner of the sink. A noisy tap, and running
shower waiting to get warm. (Running away from the cold)

The warm embrace of a hug from behind, a background
picture of love making from behind. (A favourite position)

Bacon and eggs, sitting on a lap with yesterday's only crisp shirt.
Short like the days of a dying wish, dead in the sense of the
time they both have to ****.

The morning routine of lovers.

I took that pill, and here were the symptoms:

In your eyes; I’d rather seem different, than distant—
still in the very distance, could you see me in a better light?

While coming to these unacquainted places;
meeting in between, hoping not to be as complacent.

As cutting ties, feels like cutting corners, still if I could
love someone only for a night, I’d adore the
memory of it, in that later morning.

A real tough pill to swallow.

I am in the depths of memory, where we place our full trust –
By the spreading branches, shaking off their dust
Past reflections of fury, all the moments coming to pass,
As the stain of my smile is this visage in each glass
Pale lips still whisper, as these eyes devoid of light –
Wondering about myself; if my will is still bright.

Lord, at a journey's close, where will my spirit dwell,
Will my memory become the tales that they’ll softly tell,
In twilight's after glow, what echoes will I hear,
Be it love and laughter shared throughout the years?

Where time stands still, and you feel truly whole;
Is this truly a familiar place for one's lost soul?
Dying a mirror to reflect on all the moments, never lost –
Forged memories, of all the paths we’ve once crossed.

Letting my nightingale heart serenade away the night,
A melody that lingers, pure and bright.
With every note, it mourns the dance of death,
Though heavy hearts may bear the weight of pain,
Its song will rise, a balm for every strain.

You don’t know how to party;

this is the part where you admit that you only love me partly –
and this is why we’re feeling each other with no emotion. And for
the interest of love: you’re a bank that’s hardly open. Some days
you’re such are keeper, other times I’m your secret keeper – so dark,
so deep, the secrets that you keep; telling me how to taste all the
lies on your lips.

Burning me inside; dreaming of your fiery lips – there’s that filth
in driving my thoughts into you; taking ourselves to a gearing fifth.
You and I are both ******* up sometimes, like this world – where
man screws mother nature; treating her like a ****.

And that's why we’re not the love for each other; when the love
we have for one another, comes from a place of where we’re both
still trying to understand who we are to each other.

We forgot the part, where we're supposed to be lovers!