I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collective mental cognition.

Cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete molded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which imported and exported collected consciousnesses for the trade of gelatinous brain matter had overcame us.

Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within the myriad web of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation, inspired by visions of arachnid dread.

I dream my poem as if a sketch
The stroke of my pen is the first step
From which it can become painted reality

When parents come to visit you,
Be loving and caring,
And grandchildren don't be glued to your mobiles.
Be a companion and not a superior,
Make time for them from your busy life,
Sit with them
Talk to them,
You will find leaning into love.
Let their eyes sparkle and lips curve into smiles,
Not shed tears in their pillows,
Only if I had not come.
Remember they have given you so much,
Their love time and care,
Made possible the life you enjoy,
In return they want to spend some time with you and their grandchildren.
Value them now ,
Not when you see their empty chair.

Love shines through talent
Love is not made like that
It is a shining thing in itself

Talent are for love
It is not love for talent
It is not a shining light in itself.

"Does he loves me, maybe not",
Page picks pretty precious pink petals.
"He loves me,... he loves me not",
Page pulls apart the pretty precious pink petals.

Page sing light,
She stands in doubt.
Page picks pretty precious pink petals,
For a boy, she picks to find out.

"Does he love me, I think he do"
Page picks pretty precious pink petals.
"He loves me not", he loves me and she loves him too,
Page is happy picking pretty precious pink petals.

All day she picks,
All day she plays,
Page picks pretty precious pink petals,
Everywhere she sways.

word on the street
is you’ve been looking
for my heart
truth be told
it’s not that hard to find
in fact
I wear it on my sleeve
most Monday afternoons
Tuesday evenings
yes, those too.

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could

Painful among pains is separation
that will throw yourself into desperation
no matter the time of it
it's more harmful than a hissy fit
It's a kind of desperation
Oh! A very painful situation
Either it’s a two-legged man
that you have termed as human
or a four-legged man
that you tamed with humane
If it leaves once
and never comes
pain remains in heart
and often saddens a lot