The pen –
is an extension of my body, held by my hand, as it
beats with my heartbeat; it's my very breath between
words, the intentions of my structuring, the brush to
my thoughts, the paint of my imagination.

The pen –
is the mic to my voice, the scope of my eyes, the chorus
to my soul, the bass to my heart, the shadow of my skin,
painted by the night, and why my pen chooses to be black!

It is bold, it is wild, it is persuasive, it manipulates words
to invoke change, it is controversial, it is understood by
few, yet it speaks to all.

The pen is an extension of my body –  for we are One!

How to describe the third person,
In third person; while your eyes are
Still ******, to the world' curses:
Who says we're too different, as we
Feel magnificent, but indifferent to
Their efficient, who aren't so innocent.

But we stay vigilant, to feel certain.

Ring, ring,

Goes the call to my head,
Asking if we're heading in the
Right direction, when we're in
Over our head. Could it be red,
Could it be read? To title myself
An open book, as Nowadays it's,

Either bled or blend.

A Cinderella without her feet,
Would she in the end find her Prince?
Or would she be stepped by step sisters;
And each other's many conflicts.

I'd still watch that flick.

A Pinocchio, nosey for the
Smell of flesh. He'd tell a lie,
To get under a dress. But how
Long would he reply on a lie;
To seem like he could impress.

I'd enjoy that, I must confess.

Or if a Snow white, never met a kiss,
But instead remained fast asleep.
Or never really needed a Prince.
But a huntsman, to guard herself,
By teaching her his survival tricks.

That ending kind of fits.

But why do we use made up
Fairy tales, to ferry well, on the
Endless waves of life, just to sail.
We never really measure the details,
Because we're too busy weighing our
Problems on a broken scale.

Pinheads disguised as a nail

Don't miss your step in life,
You could be close to a misstep.
Who'd forget a first cut of a knife;
As you're always on the cutting-edge.
Thinking little of moments, but what if
That little moment had it's last breath.

You'd cherish every little moment instead.

Finally,

Poetic flow, in my pen
Is always a river of words.
Seems to grown into an Ocean,
As you can hear the Waves and Birds.
Smelling the scent of salts,
Weighing heavy on your hearts.
Drowning in my deep thoughts.

Hoping to cross,
To meet the end of my pen.
But perhaps the end is the source,
And the source are thoughts,
You follow along in due course.

A pen of flow at the water's edge;
A building wave,
Prepare yourself for what's ahead.
Ahead of the tip of my pen.
As I don't write words of boys and girls,
This pen held by ten thousand women and men.

                                 The Pen's flow

Hopeless —only in the sense of my mind not putting enough
time to keep up with my hopes
Always like chasing a thought; overlapping you constantly
on a marathon of racing with life choices
Do I choose to give up on hope, giving into my own despairs,
or is it better for me to give hope a second try, giving myself
the necessary time to heal?

Who hasn’t once questioned themselves, questioned
by their morals; all while questioning their purpose
As I see myself as that white rabbit, hopping carelessly over
their problems
Though it’s easy for the creature to get trapped in the hole
That gaping hole to every scar; makes the land of your heart a block
of Swiss cheese. At times life stinks until you find maturity

Usually you’re the bunny hopping in freedom, or hoping to be free,
in amongst all of life’s snares, and the weakness of flesh being
tasty meat for others.

Does hope become a habit, or it falls into the hole
of the people’s Blanc De Hotot rabbit?

I am man who wants a lot though – I hope I win the lotto! I hope
she didn't try to park her heart in my mind, "where did she park
her car though?" Depression rides passenger, like some useless
cargo – I've studied my drive for a loaned passion, keeping an eye
on that car note. But sometimes I wonder where this car goes;
and I haven’t met the kiss of peace, just like I never seen Chicago.

I have a lot of goals – but scores of hurt; from questions of self-worth.
Tell me the maker of mismatched hopes, and the creator of dreams
from their birth? Who first put a curse on the tongue, to speak a few
curse words – who went that under someone, to underestimate when
they show a few nerves?

Would someone show me the why to the end of one's poverty -
better yet, how to own your misfortunes as first steps to fortune,
and living your worth, as your own property.

I am man who wants a lot - a whole lot of answers, to the questions
about the script of my life story; to live up to its plot.

i cannot, cannot carve myself
into a stone; as a mind set in stone
and all of it's memories, are made of gold
as i'm buried in the dark,
like all of the seeds of my words
i spread so many in the world, hoping
one day some wisdom would grow
longing of a day, a day
that I find my composition as a poem
but what is even a poem,- a piece of
writing; i'm a piece nowadays, with an addiction
to a scanty diction
an imagery i myself pretend to imagine,
and a passing time of passion in a tone
of passive


it's me. no it's we,
it's they who try to be them
it's all of us; related- but our words'
seem not to be so relative,
these days i a poet cannot, cannot relate
to my very own poems .....  ......

In the depths of darkness, I find myself
at odds with the elusive shadows.
It is as if the skeletons hidden in my
closet have found their voice, singing haunting
melodies that reverberate through my being.
With each note, my fears are shaken off,
like leaves falling from a tree in the autumn breeze.

But there is something more sinister
lurking in the corners of my existence.
Death, with her cold fingers, creeps closer,
threatening to steal away the precious moments of my life.
Time, once a constant companion, now seems irrelevant,
a mere observer as I navigate the treacherous path
between angels and demons. Heaven and Hell.

The omens that surround me are like oracles,
weaving a tapestry of the future.
Each thread is sewn with the stitches of a final laugh,
a mocking reminder of the inevitable encounter with death.
Exhaustion weighs heavily upon me, a result
of restless nights and endless toil.

I find myself trapped in a state of utter fatigue,
a working zombie in a world that demands
my every waking moment.
Juggling tasks becomes a Herculean feat,
as my mind struggles to function amidst the chaos.
Sanity slips through my fingers like sand,
and yet I cling to the pen, a lifeline in these unearthly hours.

In this battle against the shadows, I am weary but determined.
I will not let the darkness consume me.
I will continue to fight, to push through the exhaustion,
and to find solace in the written word.

For even in the darkest of nights,
there is a glimmer of hope,
a spark that refuses to be extinguished.

Hey Mr Potter, it's your son Mr Artist.
Moulding structures of a liquids fill.
Your son moulds words into a tears spill.
From the clay of what story we've shaped of the day.
You and I are the same.

Father God,

Shedding light on the matter—the stillness in being in
your presence, is faith to move still mountains.
Let my flesh not be aroused into all manners of the world.
But as I seek new compassion in the romance of reading your
Word—speak through me as your living poem.

Let man behold the promises of you, set in my destiny's
stone. And lead me onto that road; Lord set me straight on the
righteous path you send me to go.

Discipline my heart of it's wickedness, aligning my spirit to
the chords of your love. I'll be your song—a melody symphony
of the Son making a new dawn.

Burn my lips of their scorn, and rest the words of blessing on
my tongue. Let my hands not work to work a way into Heaven.
But let my labour be genuine, my first fruits yours, and always
be thankful of the strength you gave to do all.

And as I lay my head, may my dreams be as sweet as your love.
My dreams also bright as the stars, and that my day's successes
be as righteous as you are. I praise you as the first, and as the last.
Guide my future, teach me in present, and forgive me of sins past.

I bring forth to you this day, and thank you of it whether good,
bad or moderate.

In Jesus name,

Amen.

There’s an apocalypse in my eyes – but I’ll only get to see it when
I die; for the moment of my demise. Bring back the day; for I am
acutely aware that time runs its course, on an endless mile – an
infinite stretch. It pains me to don a fake smile, yet it appears
simpler when they insist, I haven’t worn it in a while.

I’m a lot happier inside!

I have a few events scripted, priming my heart for people’s let-downs,
and my disappointments – when you’re ready to face a torrent of
hurt, you find yourself anchored, awaiting their appointments.

Pain is faceless!

The past lingers with a relentless patience, ever eager to unveil how
you did it wrong – in the garden of life, regrets sprout like stubborn
weeds. Do tend to your plot, and sow the seeds of every lesson
learned, and hope wisdom grows.

You’ve been the prettiest flower all along!

A whole lot of lies swimming in a pond – ducking the truth; as I
threw a rock into the water, and it unfortunately croaked, to the
misery of those frogs. I watched as a young lady was kissing to
find her Prince charming; and I still don’t know if she ever
found him, because she had a frog in her throat.

Ah nature, with its crude nature – it laughs in the wind at night,
blowing branches as you try to sleep. And when crickets decide
to mate, is it the whole world that goes quiet as those insects?
And if it’s a game of love they play, I surely hope it isn’t ironically
like cricket – making a few runs of the person running on your
mind; while giving it all you can to have a ball with them. But
they only seem to bat an eyelid.

But aren’t you all sometimes hungry for love, like the sea that
hungers to conquer more land? Let’s erode these old cliffs, of our
own peaks, to be left with the bare essentials. And would you
mistake me as someone who falls in love with one’s essentials –
saying it with my chest; to bare one’s chest? Maybe my love isn’t
as wet, to water down those starved parts of your heart.
Darling, I’m just a small pond.

But wasn’t it a pond, where the Princess had found her love?

Eyes in the trickled stream
quiet inspirations to a quill pen- holds
of a high protection in its feathery shield

black and white- across the cavalry patrolling
against otherwise rebellious thoughts
desperately trying to ignore those ill voices
that speak to me

The story of the poet who killed a billion
pigeons, to dip their feathers in an ink, to
cope with all the insanity that rest at his brink

Pockets swole-
brokenness or dreams
Wells of my eyes-
sunken boredem or teary streams
As much; a military mind
doesn't walk into things- it's a march

Spring in that old step
whether in situations of a new season
The first key to making a moment
a keeper. I was at first a creeper,
a non believer; before a careless dreamer

it all ends in tears-
of joy or pain
all decided by how you act
under life's grey, and the rain

With a heavy heart, I exhaled a breath of longing beneath
my silent prayer – perhaps too overoptimistic. Gazing outwards,
I found myself swallowed by the paranoia of my own existence,
and chewed out by the tumultuous journey of time's relentless
exploration.

I held my reflection in a broken piece of glass; staring as the
curious, frigid gaze of a child peering into the depths of your
soul – my inner child gazed back, steeped in wistful nostalgia.

My rich brown skin, reminiscent of freshly tilled soil; labouring
through the toil while tears nourish this earth, as umbrellas lie
forgotten. Steamed by the essence of love, my surroundings
dissipate – my very bones crafted out like fragile paper, and
inscribed with the genetic legacy that tells of my human nature.

Where dreams should stand still; passionately lamenting until
they become a reservoir of still rain – the passage of time pales
in comparison to the pacing of this life. Yet, for the sake of my
aspirations, and having a hand in creating my dreams, I hope
to grasp them all one day.

Bit the taste of thunder;
you're not afraid of it's bark?
Stood still in everything falling down;
there's lightening in those eyes;
Showing you and I have a spark.

You and I; have the reins to love.

Would you let the wind pass through you from behind – you blew
out your back! Chasing after your body that looks so instrumental;
it plays that performance in my mind, of what we could do later– and
I guess for us, that’s instrumental. As my skin are these labours; on
the peak of the twelve days I had displayed all my love for you. I was
your Hercules! Falling into your silver shinning eyes, that weighs the
atomic number of love – darling, around you I feel closest to the sun –
I was your Mercury.

There were those murky waters; of questioning when it was best to
tell you I had fallen in love – I didn't want to seem too deep at the
very start; but even in the shallowest of conversations, the depth
of their length, was close enough to make me drown.

But would we both know the taste of love, the more we speak of it,
running the word off our tongues, escaping out of our mouth? I may
mouth you sometimes when you get on my nerves – I say some
things in vain, hoping to give those words their success. But even in
the pain of it all, you still remain the breath under my veins. Without
you, this version of me wouldn’t be the same.

“hey, let’s just try to start it all again”

I know we push each other's button, but together in love, we can
instead, push this reset button.

never felt as much – thoughts on how this
crush had turned into love; and how it has
me questioning the value of time
             the right love at the wrong time

if a sunflower grows wild in the winter;
would it still find it’s place to shine – we wait
for love on empty paths and our heart’s many
phases; this seems to be the phase of real love
                   the right love at the wrong time

still are any of our moments better than
the ones before… to be honest I doubt that,
when life gives us more – looking forward to
an unwritten future, whatever it paints out as
I find myself so drawn to you, in this
                      right love at the wrong time

[VERSE 1]

Not too sure that I wanna fall in love again.
Just too scared to lose myself in lost and found before I hit the ground, Baby I'm just going insane.
So many ups downs like climbing stairs
Too many heart breaks and even more love affairs.
But Baby I'm in love...

[VERSE 2]

Not sure if I could get out bed and have my breakfast always out there,
But I'm so out of breathe, lately I've being run out Air.
Not sure if I could keep my eye off another pretty girl that passes me by,
But all for you the piece ain't enough I need the whole **** Pie.
Cause Baby I'm in love.

[VERSE 3]

Not sure if I could share my blanket and this comfy bed
But I may be alive, still without you I'm feeling so Dead.
Hate to say goodbye but even more when I'm already missing you
Could we be stuck forever if I bought us some glue.
Baby I'm in love.

[CHORUS ]

Cause, baby we may be different but I'm loving you the same
And ****** girl I'm in love with that name
And if they say I'm crazy in love well then I'm going insane
If I'm singing love songs all through summer then I'll be also singing in the rain.
Cause I don't have to be rude
Too many pretty girls in this world acting so crude
Better yet they just put me in a bad mood
If could marry you right now you know that I would.
Cause all you have me feeling is feeling so **** good.
Lining up my smile just to set me in the right mood.
And I'm love with You and only You.


[VERSE 4]

Baby I'm in love with just You,
So many pretty girls all out in the world but those like you will be so Few.
So turn the radio on to that love song
And baby we could sing along
And baby, please don't be so rude
Cause this world is just so crude.
But Baby, I'm in love with that name
We might be so different but I'm still loving you the Same.
God must of had a lot to be blessed onto you
Cause your beauty got me so impressed onto You.
Throwing me kisses to keep in my back pocket
Till the day you stopped, how I almost lost it.
Still sending me kisses through the phone,
Especially when I'm without you, feeling so cold and alone.

[VERSE 5]

So kiss me right now, how I need you right now
Wish I could explain it, but I just don't know how.
Still thinking hard about you no wonder my head hurts
Especially imagining those legs in all Blue those skirts.
And if feeling old I have you to help me feel brand new
If I said I would die for you would you take as True.


[CHORUS]

Cause, baby we may be different but I'm loving you the same,
And ****** girl I'm in love with that name.
And if they say I'm crazy in love well then I'm going insane
If I'm singing love songs all through summer then I'll be also singing in the rain.
Cause I don't have to be rude
Too many pretty girls in this world acting so crude
Better yet they just put me in a bad mood
If could marry you right now you know that I would.
Cause all you have me feeling is feeling so **** good.
Lining up my smile just to set me in the right mood.
And I'm love with You and only You.

[BRIDGE]

Darling your Mine
There's wasting no time, aged to my taste you're my tall glass of wine.
And Baby you're Mine
There's no need to be wasting no time cause you're all on mind and too many thoughts of how that waist of yours is all but so fine.

[CHORUS]

Cause, baby we may be different but I'm loving you the same,
And ****** girl I'm in love with that name.
And if they say I'm crazy in love well then I'm going insane
If I'm singing love songs all through summer then I'll be also singing in the rain.
Cause I don't have to be rude
Too many pretty girls in this world acting so crude
Better yet they just put me in a bad mood
If could marry you right now you know that I would.
Cause all you have me feeling is feeling so **** good.
Lining up my smile just to set me in the right mood.
And I'm love with You and only You.

Tomorrow’s eyes watch me —
but I am blind until it arrives.
To cease to exist feels like a ceasefire
in time, where I burn away inspiration
on the fumes of an energy drink.

Notebook scribbles doing their best
to unknot all my thoughts —
tangled passions poured out in pen.
This art… it’s love in its messiest form.

Beneath every star, there’s a space
between us — these stained brown eyes
aching for more time, more ink, more breath
to write out the seconds before they disappear.

The pen, a formless weapon — shaping
silence into meaning, turning pressure into
prayer, forming words to be.

Harsh are these words, but what great Truth doesn’t hurt a little:
the promises of people today, will only be the hurt for you tomorrow,
the debt that people owe you, is often paid by the words of a forgotten
promise; even for all the love you hope to give out- its only by
a wishful wish, that you’ll get your fare share back,

There’s a note to take of the friends that will let down you,
those family members who will discard you, all the people who
will critic you, the love of past lovers that will break you, the words
that make you a victim, said from those who want to play bigger victims;
the good you so desperately try to do, to get so much bad in return,

To those you put all of your trust in, some can be trusted to
hurt and wound you, the sun will be your spotlight on top your fears,
the moon will cry with you in silence, the bath water will account for
all your tears, the snakes will sing you praises with a jagged smile,
life will chastise you; hope will forget you sometimes, time will question
you each day, age will starve you of youth, the living will grow intolerant
during your time of mourning, as death will forever remain patient for you…

                                                          These are but just life’s great Truths.

I am troubled by affections
that which you give, but I do not receive
Lost in your eyes; I see you've lost the love

Tragic!
a time you and I were magic
to read thoughts;
words on your mind I could spell
Havoc!
reaping what you sow; a pretty rose from
the garden—pierced hand of thorns

A taste of blandness
blah, blah blah, blah

I must sound like to your ears
my dreams hear you speak ill to peers
In perfect silence, can you hear the sound of a tear

                                        ...these are my tears

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” they say.

Yet, for the child who raises their glass jar to the sky,
Reaching for their dreams like capturing butterflies,
Doesn’t opportunity present itself once again?

Trapped in the labyrinth of my insecurities,
Longing within this spinning reverie,
Like the threads of time, I’ve lost my curiosity,
The first time, the sounds of joy would tickle my ears,
A passing breeze urging me ahead,
How can I ignore what can’t be ignored,
By seeking self-promotion and disregarding what lies in store?

A curious mind will inquire a second time.

Wisdom embraced me once,
In her nurturing embrace, countless times,
Though not her own, she taught me her truths,
Infusing them with a spiritual essence and whispering them with a kiss,
Her eyes painted the speech of a chosen few,
And with attentive ears, wide as the gates of a church,
She welcomed, studied, earnestly, devotedly, diligently.

On the veins of the altar,
She caressed herself within me,
Wisdom loving me a second time.

Life unfolds as a simple circle,
Round and round we all journey,
If there has been a first, a second time shall surely follow,
For if today we haven’t done it all,
Tomorrow offers us a chance, a second time to pursue.

Now in these eyes, petrified, terrified, suicide,
In all the walks of life, fighting only to survive,
A man's pride is weaponized; his failings widely televised,
All the moments of love's bitter sweet,—by what we gingerfy,
Love is red; putting yourself out there to be hurt and jeopardize,
Learning from past mistakes,—change of character we gentrify.

Oh the next line; follow suit of a route to death wrapped in a necktie,
We envy to say "hie," but are accustomed to saying short goodbyes,
As life is a constant trial; walking court cases with a confident smile,
"Guilty or not," all of my shortcomings I press on in their denial.

I've walked a thousand's,—in a mile of every breath of time,
Though I haven't lived a while, I've seen plenty in these eyes.

Tell me,
if I can make love to someone through my eyes;
Allowing me to truly witness and appreciate every
exquisite detail of them— my eyes would become
vessels, through which my adoration flows freely
for you.

My daddy warned me
not to stay up late,

But how could I,
how could I,

Not cry,
when the world looks;
so much better inside that screen?

My daddy never told me why,
cause we were too busy crying.

My daddy warned me; not to stay up late,
But how could I not cry, when the world looks
So much better inside of that screen?

My daddy never told me why, because we
were too busy crying.

My daddy warned me; not to give up on my faith,
But how could I not decide, to let go of faith,
When we’ve all lost our ways?

My daddy couldn’t hold his own,
With all the weight of the entire world.

All these tears, have run dry,
And I’m just bleeding out of my eye,
And it’s so hard to cry, knowing your soul has died.
All these tears, have already died.
Already died, already died, already died,
I don’t feel alive.

My daddy warned me, not to be so lazy,
But how could I not sigh, at any movement,
Feeling like we’re all about to die?

My daddy worked himself to the bone,
All with nothing of his own.

My daddy warned me, not to give up on dreams,
But how could I not tell him, we’re all feeling scared;
With so much pressure placed on our heads?

My daddy didn’t face all of his fears,
We're both running off scared.

But my daddy told me to, look up to the sky,
Even when I want to cry, with tears gone dry,
Someone is by my side, as Heaven also cries.

All these tears, are filled with life.
Filled with life, filled with life, filled with life,
And I’m still alive.

Glances at the sky tonight,
seems only to show me peaceful violence,
Look at the falling rocks of so many shooting stars this night.

Too many lights in the sky,
how isn't the world as bright,
How we act to lose ourselves in the dark,
yet there's still these lights at our sights.

Tell you to-
shed your skins
Leave yourself exposed;
and without our clothes
Who knows what-
happens now?

        All depends with the sounds.

It feels so great to be so grate,
especially as one with a shredded mind.
As I read red is the new blue to all my blues,
but as someone who often knows his creativity
leaks out of their head, with a ****** nose.
I'd still like to split the bill of paying for
my own well being,— do check the cheque.

And I might as well pay extra for all my dues
for a lifetime of all my do's, and change all
my ideas on top of my head, like those new hairdos.
But to whoever stares too close into my eyes, you may
slip and fall with the stairs leading to my mind.
As I'm one more trip to trip over another misstep;
like another thing that will always disappoint you.
I guess there's a lesson in those pains, that I can't
even make fun of on this straight and narrow,— saying
no to diss a point.

But if I fail too much, I hope I don't miss that sign
before I sign my life away to depression,
A depression deep as the sea bottom you'll never really see,
and typing out it's Crushing feeling with a capital C.
You can credit me for having a wet eye; the tears of
each time life tears out another hopeful page from
the story of my life.

—Life, is really as great as what you hope you read,
but I'd never really know on the nose,
so please do check for yourself.

As there's no due time for your dreams,
unless we're considering death, as the Mistress
who has to do what she has to do.
I know there must be a stair case to heaven,
but right now I pray for strength to live through
this hell with people's many evil stares.
But I'll say it in advance, "so sorry to anyone,
I didn't mean to disappoint you, again"

I still hope you can read the sign from whatever I
write, before I sign it in my blood, sweat and tears.
But you don't seem to see much, when you're
drowning in your thoughts,—its like a sea, much
before you write out the letter C to your Carelessness.

Of course I'd sound like I care less
for any of the tears in anyone's eyes,
But is it wrong of me to say I'm tired, "but I'm too
young to be tired," and I guess I'd be too wrong to
want to tear out that expression out of your mind.

         But anyways that's the story of my life.

If I lean in to kiss you now, will I find myself regretting it?

We began as friends, but as time passed, our feelings
deepened into something much more profound.
There’s that void between us, a question lingering in
the air about what could bridge that distance—the
tension of silence hanging just before our lips meet.

The real question is: will I cherish this moment forever,
or will it haunt me with regret?

would it seem so wrong to disassociate – to sever ties
from those closest to you, who know where to strike,
piercing through your heart? yet, I lay bare my flesh,
offering myself as a service to people, in the most
fleeting of ways. true friends are a rarity nowadays;
my eyes are unaccustomed to pretend; smiling with
practiced ease before their gaze

and I only have a few tears to shed, shielding myself
from the gossip of the rain. my unclean skin gleams
under the sun’s harsh light – I am a million desolate
stars, yearning for a miracle amidst the lull of dreams

as father time offers no gifts to the innocent, mother
nature trembles at the sight of her fragile offspring –
we, the inhuman

and life demands that you work like a machine,
yet a machine cannot be alive. but in a similar sense,
both the machine and I grow tired – so, so very tired
        ...the machine would love to disassociate.

Picture frame of ugliness – but not what the world sees,
when your paint yourself under your insecurities.
Does that make you a coward; or are their eyes
the cowards, too afraid to see the real picture of
themselves?

societal expectations, and passive judgments –
behold their critical gaze; yet so are the eyes that can’t
stare themselves in the face. so too, blinded by their
own fears, and personal insecurities.

But as you start to peel away at the metaphoric picture
frame, retracing their hidden layers of drawn over
strokes of new paint - embracing vulnerability;

I'm between finding myself in my inner self-criticism,
and external judgments – I could be the picture of the
prettiest flowers, and hoping one day I learn to paint
myself under the brushstrokes of security, and
vulnerability!

my picture is finally complete!

All are born to shine; I tread the earth with grace
Feeling the weight of sorrows, as life does trace  
In her embrace, I find both pieces of pain & care
Her silent whispers, weave a cloak, one so rare

As the walls, like rivers, tell of the shifts inside
An echoing pulse where my true self does bide
An unseen force tugs at my heart's deeper seam
In the soft, dark tear, I find all fears in a dream

A tempest stirs within my soul, a voice confined
Yearning to escape, to maybe soar, to be defined
Through trials faced, I’ve brushed away the grime
Preserving my spirit, as if its untouched by time.

Flipped ideas and concepts,
flattery of the heart, and excuses not to make.
We're all these things and many more pouring ourselves out by the upside-down.

Hey there brother,
what's with the frown, what's with the tears.
Never heard of the upside-down flipping those feelings right back around.

Thinking it meant you feeling better,
but stop playing pretend cause not every advice you get is like a friend.
The world is tough, and tougher when you toughness isn't matching the measure.

So maybe flip the world, letting the bad hang over
But I can't promise all the bad will soon be over,
Still all the bad pushes us to the good to hold it closer.

But you may feel flipped yourself,
cause the world itself enjoys to flip us over.

Still don't hang onto it's ideas,
you  may hang yourself just for it's pleasure.
And it may give you every reason to say you're nothing special
But a broken world can't know it's worth to determine if you're treasure.

So maybe stick to the balance of things,
away from the imbalance that probably haunts your dreams
And cares nothing of who really wins.

Stick to the sky, for the grip of things,
And I know it seems hard, but it's never as hard as it seems.

Just try your best to hang onto your dreams.

I

Love,
could be a streaming river of a constant flow of words.
My tongue tip speaks of many things (All could be so
refreshing)

Lessons are hidden to blind eyes of my river; why not
walk alongside it? Follow along the lessons that stretch
(You may learn)

This river, made of a thousand tears in my eyes. Draws
greatly, and a great sorrow. It tastes sweet, at times
tickling at your throat (To ease a thirst)

II

Like a tall and mighty mountain; and pieces of treasure
no eye has yet seen. My words that are untouched,
the bare minimum of being bare. This land feeds
all others before me and us (My love has great care)

On top of mountains, two rocks at a peak. All rests on them,
all that's made of my dreams. These dreams are always
placed so highly, hoping they're high enough to be seen by
a God.

III

This Valley of stories, of both past & present. The days of old
and soon the many days anew. Of a place I call God by so
many different names.

Mwari, Nkulunkulu, Jehovah, Jirah, King, Lord and Father.

And like God, I witnessed his beauty and glory,
And like God, my mouth spoke of his many creations;
And like God, I said: "it is good"

This valley is where I'm found.

Slit wrists, stained kisses; the night of young
and dark thoughts to succumb. All at once, was
dreaming so fun, before the nightmare of daily life.
Surpassing the intent of suicide, staring at that
knife in pen. Then again—ink bleeds out onto
the paper's spread. ~the dark thoughts of my head.

Where I'll lie, laiden on a maiden I'd want to kiss,
a girl to call a Miss. And a softer wall to my fist.
Knuckles cracked in two by the bone; the flesh torn
as I'm fighting my demons on my own. ~what's the score?

                                         10-0

Ten of the times I feel like a zero, in the eyes
of imagining myself a comical hero. I'm a villain;
self antagonist in doubting my potential. Eggshell
walking steps from taking a risk. ~a little too careful.

Mediocre—the media oak of it's power to grow
in longevity, endurance. Enduring the worst parts
of me—in a Hell pit swallowing me. The burn marks
of scratching shoulders of the crowd to acknowledge me.
To be called a young Prodigy; ~with great honesty.

But honestly; I'm waiting for things not seasoned
in the time. In the directionless ways of a life with
no signs, or boundary lines I haven't drawn.
Covering a heel to bites of snakes slithering on my lawn.
If I got a loan for a night's success, what would the
world want in return? ~hopefully not my soul.

All my confessions; these deep depressions,
counting out my sins with the fingers of my blessings.
Hoping they aren't lessin, in the world's quick call to
change, is to keep on weaponing. ~wars are all we know.

Even the ones we never fought. We've been taught
how to fight back before the fighting began. Perhaps
we try our best at fighting alone. ~that's the way of
the world.

Written word,
the speeches I might make
The pros and cons you know,
all what we do isn't always guided by fate.

Take a tour inside your mind,
a true journey of life.
The past is always behind,
fools only bring it along with them
Why waste,
the little moments we have right now,
given it's weight
You weigh your heart on troubles,
the mass of which
Doesn't help in thinking straight.

I'll clear my throat,
let the inner voice be heard
I do prefer,
for people to wish me good by their word
Actions,
are what I'd expect to compliment in works.
Effort,
is for those willing to put it in,
Don't do too much,
but a little to prove what you're doing.

I give my grace,
as the heroes I've only known
Gave their lives to keep me safe.
Don't be the one to waste a life
wasting the one you have
Be glad for what you own.

Life is more of what you
can give than take,
Earn than buy,
how much real you are than acting fake.
How you handle your blessings,
and deal with mistakes.

As is the way
The way of things in life.

Everything is so terrifying for the introvert going outside—
the overthinker rehearses all of their prestored sentences,
Sitting on impeccable lines with no trace of uncertainty,
but ever so certain that it’s what the ear wants to hear.
The hopeless romantic knows the picture of a good love
story, but can’t seem to paint that picture for themselves—
Because imagination never quite imitates real emotion.
                                                        ­         And it’s irritating.

But haven’t I been them all? A single character playing
too many roles— the pencil in my story, trying to sketch
out the scenery of a better life. The pen, trying to write
out a good script that fits in the ink folds of my cerebellum.
My skin wears the wrinkles of time, bruises like an overcoat—
a weathered face, but it’s body has no spring in its step.

I’ve been depressed. But when you’re made to grow up too
fast, to keep pace with the world, what else do you expect?

Still, don’t expect me to be anything less than my level best.
Elevated fears go up, while my hope quietly goes down.
Yet on the upside? I stopped pretending to flip my frown
upside down. Some days I’m up. Most days I’m so down.
But I’m not always down— just holding onto the little hope
I find in creation; beauty painted out from my frustrations.
Like the weather, my mood keeps shifting. And whether
you’re caught in a long winter after a short summer,
Don’t worry— it’s all just a passing season.

Beating a stigma
 with a stereotypical stick — as they tell me  
“Do stick to your kind” if I ever hope to suite in.
But trying to suite in never really means you’ll fit in —
it just means you’re dressed for the part, and not the room.

Because when the interior world doesn’t match
the exterior’s performance, the walls echo as a stranger.
    Being “mysterious” is still a bit of a mystery to me —
Especially when society’s own boundaries blur like
  breath on glass. So they’ll corner you with regulation
and call it freedom. But the regulars aren’t in order.

Again, boundaries do blur,
  like lines drawn with wet chalk.
Regulations - written by those who keep changing the page.
Still, society will corner you and call it “open space.”
The regulars aren’t in order. They call us too young to be this
    tired, by this idealistic age, that has us exhausted by reality.

Some mornings, I hate being told “Good morning.”
It sounds too bright for the kind of dark I’m carrying around.
My face? Is mundane by necessity. And I’ve surrendered to
the grey — because bright ideas can get you darkened these days.

Memories always haunt us —
   but we never get the gift of being ghosted by our pasts.
We are phantoms in the present, shadows behind the future,
hoping to step into the light without burning.

But let’s make light of the struggles we face, and not
just fight demons in the dark. The dark is their territory —
but the light is where we name things without shame.
Cos in the weekly sense — you wear your weakness
  like cologne, but cover it in the smile of a pretend-bright today.

What am I doing so wrong in my life, to not be moving any
further ahead? How many counts do I need make, to soon realize
I’m running out of breath?

Am I dead?

No, not yet!

But as close to the feeling, with blood running through my eyes,
to only see red. It could be my last time to wake up alive in my bed.
The confusing phrase of, “he/she woke up dead”

Where I rest my head, lays the thoughts of dealing with life’s pressures
and pointless cares. Gaining less of self-respect, and losing some of
my hairs. Especially at an early stage, as I disengage from people who
act my age.

Well the previous one at the least.

Being too young doesn’t have much to give, but just wasted time.
Living without much direction, missing every sign. Pretending you’re
all fine. Flipping girls over for a change of finding a dime. I’m funding
my love, but quickly losing interest. They could be so many out
there, but I’m not a fan of all the kinds of fishes.

Those constant sweet nothings, and long tongued kisses. Not
really much of a fan, when my opinions to them are blowing in
the wind. I’m just blowing in the wind, with the echoes of it
tickling me down in my knees.

Sigh! I take a few minutes to quietly breathe.

Testing my own winds, to see if I still feel. Ha, I’ve watched an
emotion develop into being. Proceeding far ahead of my delusions
that trick my out of the things that are real.

Sigh! I take a few minutes to quietly breathe.

Blowing in the winds, blowing in the winds, blowing in the winds.
A windmill of my life, all of which spins on repeat.

How do I stop myself from blowing in the winds?

She pounces on her prey,
timing her attack.
Do you chase for me O dear,
instead of me chasing you in a magnificent forest.
The hunt for love is only a mile,
but if we ever fall in love it will take us a while.

Bodies grow tired,
feelings grow in their hunger.
We all what someone to love,
the love and affection of another.

And in a split second,
love attacks us in a perfect method.
Which calls the hunt done,
but question is, which side has one.

Cover upon the covering,
under the canopy of the Lord, let my lips
speak words honouring.
Faithful and true, and his mass—I am secure.

I've tasted a love so pure—honey dripping,
and anointed in oil. My centre is Jesus, in every
facing turmoil.

There isn't a battle I'll face alone.
No weapon of the enemy shall come to pass,
even the daggers formed to persecute me of my past.

I trust the all of my Lord; in every word,
the motion of destiny written by his hand.
Despite the broken promises of man, not everything
I see is said to last. But the eternal of my God isn't set in a
time of fragile glass.

And even at my brokenness, he will work in me;
as He has strengthen me over thoughts of worthlessness.

I thank the working of the Lord!

Tied out laces, dirt on all our faces
We can't fit in with the crowd:
Uneven teeth, dried out lips
Do we ever feel a bit proud?
Empty pockets, plenty of losses
As our problems echo so loud.

They don't see us; as we see them all.

Torn out socks, shoes with rocks
Kicked by the foot of life:
Bleeding noses, and dead roses
Our gardens never survive:
Living divided, we're all misguided
At the edge of a sharp knife.

They don't see us; as we see them all.

Look at us!
They think they're better driving fancy cars,
Look at us!
They think they're better spending chips at bars,
Look at us!
They think they're better buying off the people,
Look at us!
They think they're better treating us less than equals,
Look at us!
They think they're better with their ***' sunlit,
But even if you try to hide it; we all go through some shït.



We are the misfortunate;
Who missed good fortunes
We are ringing in your head?
But do you ever hear us calling?

My soul feels too short for love –
but there’s a tall glass of it, I’m hoping
fills the thirst of my heart’s empty cup
But if there’s a map to someone’s thoughts
…here I am, navigating!

While the hills of their eyes are always
these dreams like mountaintops
Though rising to your peak is so scary –
where the bottom always looks you up,
And I know we’re all still searching for those
pieces of ourselves.

Even when sometimes there’s a mix of
doubt in my cup – it’s so hard to doubt the
fact that you sometimes really love to doubt
yourself… most days I have to empty myself,
to refill up on worth in this cup.

I have an empty bottle to place my dreams,
but I best fill it quickly before it sinks,
Yet time is not on my side as though it seems.

The world moves fast, that I look twice,
It plays cruel when you're acting nice.

And you'd have to give Love, and then repeat,
Cause if you can't do that then you won't receive.
And I know it's odd, but True indeed.
Cause this love we have is all we need.

And as they say faith can move a mountain, I don't really have much to prove,
They say I don't fit, but can't even fit in my shoe.
I know it's odd but kinda true.

And there's no real distraction from what is happening,
And I'm a young man just acting so old fashioned .

And these lessons too kinda feel the same way,
Just used for a different day.

But this empty bottle would tell me otherwise,
And you'd know me keeping it as a prize.

Though the world would hate us,
sadly we can't hate equally.
So we'll be the unbalance.

So a cheers to what I'll pour out of this empty glass of mine,
And to the future, and perhaps this drink, both to last me through time.

Death is not a silent affair; the sobs of the living resonate above my
coffin. I ponder the manner of my demise, never the timing, for each
of our ends have their set dates. Is that the reason why we bring
flowers to the grave, to compliment the date?

When we close our eyes at night, I know a piece of us dies, as a
fragment of our essence fades, dreaming to survive into tomorrow.
Perhaps those who choose suicide are merely those who forget to
wake up again—lost and still trapped in the darkness, searching for
the light, yet some remain forever in the dark.

Death is not a silent affair; anyone's sudden death brings the sound
of tears.

So this is for the King—the one who died for my sin, and also
for putting fresh breath inside of me. As an adolescent teen, I
was trying to put together all the useless things that I believe.
I was just being a human being; with not a lot of things to give,
still I do have this thing, called his Holy spirit within. This is for
the King.

I was so tired of lunch dates—deep fakes. So I had to pray for the things that aren’t as straight. With love, and grace shall I give of myself;
I am in His control. I give of my soul, and with it my all. The Lord who still cares for the lesser, giver of all  things in endless blessings. I am restless, relying on a man of this world. It’s always so cold, as the longest winter within my bones. But he told me of my self worth. Goodness deemed upon me, that renders me free. I'll sing praises to him. This is for the King.

I was born, baring the many of life’s struggles. Wasn't good to
mix in with others. Or to get along with a few cousins. What have
they made of me now? An older boy, not feeling too proud. Wow!
As fit, I’m not built to take on the entire weight of the world, I've often been told. But I'm rejoicing in those sufferings, knowing my heart gains great endurance. That my praises to Him be amongst the purest. I’ve surely endured my life’s greatest struggles, into this character. So to me, this struggles don't really matter. By they own; it has given me hope, so hopeful to be what the Creator has made me to be. This is for the King.

The devil tries to make my God seem small. But he doesn't know
anything of my God that he is to me—he's my all. What are peddles to a rock, rocks to a mountain, and mountains to a King, Greater is he that has Christ who lives in him. So shall your faith in Him; move all the mountains that you see. This is for the King.

This is for the King, it's all for the King. The King of kings
who resides in me. I am part of His royalty. He taught loyalty,
as I know all enemies are against me—but the the Lord is always
there for me.