Hubby,
Our fractured laugh is irredeemable.
It Is reinforcing the heroic microbes.
to brainstorm some tiny schemes.
with a lack of delicacy and tact

to recur the same cynic nights of devastation,
incorporate the sores into our throats; a full-time personification of tangible intrusion, directly to the full portrait of the Meningitis itself.

Distracting the law of the incubation hours for all strains, overpowering the blood cower, and hovering over our jaded hoarse, sneering at our last appalling psyche-knot

After this creative detention,
I’m invoking another forever torpor inside of our hearts' beats to pose another irrevocable damage that would perpetuate a close depiction of da Vinci’s Last Supper masterpiece.

Honey, Light yourself with a viral-bacterial whirlwind and sink into its bleakness beside my bewitching bind.
I'm still loving you despite all my infections.
amid the urge to enfold your tsunami and swallow its combination
Fortunately, we have survived so many different tragedies together, as a full piece of plague
above Utopia.

- The Poetic Soul

A black and white butterfly, full of poetry, is craving you.
As you walk by her orchard and wander through.
Making her great wings Causing a miracle.
to let your head tip toward the sky, wisely like an Oracle.
Guessing who dares to embrace your soul sincerely?
And all of a sudden feeling her rhythm flirting with you tentatively.
Asking you would you be my handsome husband forever.
Telling you I dare not to leave your spot, whatsoever.

I got bunches of hope,
full of honey and milk,
rooted to your *****,
dressed in a pinkish silk,
It is craving your babyface,
wandering around your manhood,
invoking copious amounts of grace,
In order to devour as much charm as it can,
gently sluicing sediments from your weary right palm,
massaging it twice and coating it with fragrant balm.

There, In the centre of our old black and white patio,
I am Injuring the rushing longing inside my ruins.
that dares to leap onto your shoulders and make poems.

What sacrifice could I assume to make our souls entwined with a curse of permanence?

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.

Through the bleak midnights
I sent some exclusive prayers.
Against the foggy distance, between our aches,
I stood numbly, with the urge to yearn for some touches, brimming with caresses.
My shoulders were full of tenderness, lured by the spreading lights beneath my calamity.
Our shades reflect on the waiting northern beacon; we are there, above all the sleeping folks, matted with white obedient doves, angelically, like the chosen lovers.

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.

You are wafting above my carelessness like an aged, crafty hope.

Bearing in mind that, starting from this verse, I'm utilizing as much tenderness as I can, tolerating the brainstorming of some beautiful expressions I had saved, on the American manual lexicon that I craved, your mushy wings are too soft to ponder manipulating the ruin's hell, keep your baby heart classy and friendly so you can dwell.

There are days that you are glinting like a concealed jewel, joining the stars through their ceremonies, acting cool.

I'm too rigid and miserable to smash. Your whole integrity dares not mess with the unsolved poetic puzzle in its cache.

I like to escape through the light, to lose the fact of being detained.
Its rule could answer our call, not to increase our glare, but to devour it all.
forget about the darkness, and break the ice,
In a melancholic way, hide in the brightness without admitting that you’re craving the light.

Above the appalling ruin, you created an icy universe.
I received nothing but shock, my eyes wandering around in miserableness. I used to yearn for garden lullabies. Deep into your bewitching gaze, I couldn't ask for more, but I committed some tender rituals within your velvet lakes, overdosing on the sanctuary when crows were nearby, cawing for more melancholic offerings.
What kind of obligation would make your full-time miracles mine?

Into his hundred senses of delicacy and humour, I noticed a lexicon; an enormous candy factory, filled with sweet expressions and sensitivity, luring the outrageous cabin of mine, expanding the prettiness of the English grammar, idioms, and phrasal verbs into my illiterate tiny bunch of rebellious books. I sensed a great copious number of complex poems, rich of enchanting verses, fascinating stanzas that patted on my typos gently, guiding them into a better asylum. I wandered all around his incisive vocabulary, and for a while I lost my melancholy when he sluiced my dark excursion down. I loved him with all my misery. Yes, I did.

Don’t let me in,
I’m filled with hopeless stories and dead oceans.
Rooks are over me, picking at the strewn sore.
Getting closer to me is like leaping into the choke itself.
Stay safe with all your attractive blessings.

Hey hubby,
Aftermath,
You devalued the entire outburst.
The Glare is rejecting your dignity. It holds on to your upturned dynamic, crashing its pieces in front of our confrontation’s stanza and repeatedly punching your troubling typos in order to escalate another love conundrum out of our rending fight. Afterward, do you think that we are presumably still each other’s sanctuary?

- The Poetic Soul.

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.

And then,
No one returned
When I had decided
to remain fragile
They are awaiting
For the destruction
Itself to crave me.

He had said his name once,
When I was drowning in my ADHD’s ocean,
There was no time to remember or to ask again;
He was the best passerby in my abandoned bookshop.

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.

This trap is familiar, full of integrity and decorum,
I wished I could turn it into a safe spot.
I loved how it looked, and for once I pushed my impulsiveness into a bleakness, so I couldn't sense where this pain was shrieking from.