Is it that I'm really stupid?
or maybe it's that, I'm the cupid
of problems and lucidity,
which explains my stupidity.

The ink in my pen let's me
leave you out, my darkness.
You do dark the prison for me,
I can't be more grateful, my darkness!

A murderer I am,
as  I covered the dark balm
of blood on my lamp
the lamp I was and, I am.

I don't know if you still care, dark.
There's nothing you lack,
I guess you don't miss
the things that were amiss.

Dark - my dreary shark
with, deepening incisors
you summon me, to be the scissors
of my darkness, my dark!

No matter what I do,
memories and  regrets still fly;
the girl inside knows how to lie,
I can't get out, I cannot go.

I feel so dead cold inside,
I'm enclosing my death outside.
Please, be by my side,
the screams won't leave my inside.

The insaniest depths of mine,
still know the mine
of happiness, I want it to be mine.
One day, maybe someday it'll be mine.

I think too much,
talk too much,
dream too much,
and write too much
in a desire to
illicit implicit
emotional responses
engineered in
the pursuit of
defining and expanding
the influence of
love.

The dust made him sneeze,
his face tinted by blackish grease,
the freckles reflecting his age
but,his mind was on another page.

The slightly greying temples,
did put forth a fear that trembles
in a heart hardly softened;
a tremor yet to be pacified.

That young stamping sloper,
he wasn't once the limpest limper
but, a young musician,
who knew how to muse precision.

He knew the trembling strings,
like his trembling trips,
to the very deepest depths.
He knew how to keep his steps.

That pondering philosopher once  he was,
I don't know if he still pass
the vast valley of momentary music;
he was that twisted psychic.

The tangled fellow searched through
the box that had the forgotten crew.
Enthusiasm shot over the place,
he couldn't yet forget the forgotten lace.

He never would want to retreat,
to the fiery fanaticism of his treat,
he had enjoyed all that was enjoyable
in his small hall of holes,he was able.

Greased of age was this musician
but,he could smile in fusion
with,pain and remorse.
He wasn't just meant to be morose.

Packing our bags,
as if never coming back,
to never look back
at these baggy bags.

These baggy bags,
have you and me.
Memories,  now they flee,
with the bagginess these bags.

The park swing still swings,
as if it never missed our bubbling
nor the crazy chattering,
on that swing we used to swing.

Eccentric we were,
in terms of termly terms
like love,we had to squirm
and worm to who we were.

The park swing had bid adieu long ago,
but these baggy bags,
memory and love it drags;
these baggy bags don't flow with the foe.

These baggy bags,
packed bags,they sack
nothing but love and faith-
that, we once had.

Krypton didn’t fit with anyone,
as it was  the unfriendly one,
it never went beyond it’s limits
even if others did loose their limits.

It was from a forlorn world,
nobody cared to say a word,
to this enigma of another world;
no one wanted to share a word.

The nobles were always preoccupied
with their occupied shells,
they never hung out with the occupied,
nor the unoccupied.

Krypton was mistaken for kryptonite.
It wondered every night,
Why they accused it for the assassination?
it didn’t have the power of absorption.

Krypton had very few of it’s kind,
it didn’t know where they were aligned.
He held the hope of being able to be lined,
with the rest of it’s kind.


Poor Krypton, he was on the farthest
arena of the periodic table
it wished if it could turn the table,
so that it can at least act a bit feeble.

Experience taught this novice,
it calculated the calculations,
to traverse the long distance,
fear hindered the transmissions.

Krypton used to think without links
he was one of the stable nobles,
he wasn’t the one that wobbles
and, one of the table’s baubles.