i believe in a gentle kind of love
all soft and soothing and
just right
when i am so terribly, irritatingly fragile
fingers running down my back while we lie
rib to rib, heart to heart
listening to the beat, and to the breath
and perhaps it is that, in this world of rough and tumble
of screaming and aching, to believe in a love kind and sweet is
a naivety but i find that
because of all this roaring outside our window, i much prefer
to think of that love sweet and kind
and us, tangled around each other, i think, yes

i find that i believe in a gentle sort of love

Yes, I’m designing gift cards today; I'm crafting another creative hope, Despite all the gift cards that you tore apart. I’m not creating them to feed your greed anymore; I’m mastering them for this beautiful world, outside of my grief.

While I’m Standing in the middle of the sleepy show , Embracing your holiness with a half-rigid conscious mind, Quetiapine is all over the tiny universe, incorporating into a hundred thunders.

ill eagles are committing suicide, and bats are celebrating the final happy ending over their corpses.
Verses turned into transparent hope, and folks died.

I’m over their terror, burying my whole calamity beneath my haunted soul, crafting some papery flowers, coloring their folds, and organizing them around your fiery throne.

Despite all those doomsday grand signs, I'm luring the romance in the sky’s red layers to possess me as a last romantic attempt, to be able to cover all your fantasies and make them come true for the last time.

My love, I’m there between your fairytales, inhaling the magic and exhaling the tragedy instead of you.

Heather is tickling the baby’s little hope,
preventing him from growing up,
Unstoppable laughter is such a lite choke.
Its purplish tyranny yanks the main pleasure’s roots, defiles the purity of the Utopian trees, and
Hunts the maturity of dystopian folks.
Heather is too despicable to set this black-and-white belief free. It’s the new beginning of doubt’s sense of humor.

It's the fifth checkmate. I’m gathering such rich lyrics, organizing them in order to capture that image of the holy you, while you are hovering over my melancholic mind like a brilliant baby angel, delving gently with your holy fingertips into my memories, extracting the tender hallowed lullabies and gospels I used to distract dread with, and archiving some critical sores deeply into the rigid absent-mindedness of mine. Your portrait is bursting out of my soul like a fresh era, tempting my verses to leap out of my lines; it’s another uncertain obligation. Words down there, still conscious, for the sake of better refuge. Poems are shimmering, shivering, and blinking in every corner of this attempt. My soul wandering around, sinking in each corner for a better rhythmic choice, how many poetic soul do I need to cover this perfect divine of yours inside of my belief.