there're those who enjoy making your life miserable
        that's the storm, a dark night where you've nothing to shelter you

then there're those who go to great lengths for the slightest of your smile
        that's the tranquility,  a spring morning with the scent of flowers

~ S.G

“Why won’t the darkness leave me?
When I’m bound to fall apart
Why does the light deceive me?
Won’t you touch my heart?

I hear the tragic pain of laughter
Shadows of the past
I feel the pain of sadness
Covering me like a blanket of snow

I need the sun
I need to feel the light
I need to feel secure and warm
Without the scary night

Faded away in memories of ashes
Crushed in the ground
Lay there to die
Bleeding away with poisonous lashes
Shadows forever
Eternity subside”

The slightest sound
Reminds me that my soul is bound
No longer profound
I am silenced

The abject emptiness
My heart cannot support the weight
of this
heaviness

I wonder
On the nature of things
Lucretius

My constant wondering if this is it
I can no longer sit

Around and be idle to this idol
What is it that I am choosing to be?
Is this me?
Is this what I am meant to see?

Of where I've been
The halls I've wandered
The solitude encompassed in the empty rooms
When I am alone with me

My past,
My memories
I try to ignore her
But she demands and audience
With herself

Who am I to deny
Her of her own being

This is not a poem I have written for you
This is why you are confused

I am my own muse.

Smooth lines
       Expressive eyes
             Innocent wide smile
An honest to god lie.

Fate intertwined
       Within a bracket hide
              Need something exceptional
A dread forming inside.

The want within reach
        Every sense override
               Worded desire hypnotise
Turned euphoric high.

Burned through the night
         Clothed in warm light
                 Pieces falls in places
Shines brighter than starlight.

Twinkling amidst the dark
         Showering in scattered fireflies
               Music in the visual serenity
And the promise to be mine.

I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.

Why do words look better on a sheet,
When, from my mouth, they seem incomplete?
How is it they flow so well with ink?
If I try to speak them, I cannot think.
Will they transform, someday? From noise to sound?
If I voice words out there, will they be found?