The sly smoke lingering upon the room
The door open, enclosing the broom
Calmly I sat,  on my wooden  chair
Reading the newspaper, under the sun's glare

Yet the phone soundly rang
A catchy tune it's speakers sang
In my mind, who could it be?
In the end of the line, a stranger greets me.

And such reveals the mists of mystery
He demands me to stay awake
This uncalled feeling of stressful misery
Is far worst than I could take

Poetry is the altruistic apogee of the individualistic emotional egoist.

The lack of feeling, and the lack of empathy,
the petty attempt to hide them with creativity.

It’s truly astonishing how we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re kind
When we’re just wasting our time, pretending to see when we’re blind.

How could we ever emulate our chemical imbalances on one another?
The only way to do it is the kindly overrated feeling of love and affection.
And why would we need words, if we’re sure about our love for each other?
Oh, we’re puzzled to believe that our puny poetry represents felt perfection.

Yet we just walk through the valleys of lyricism,
Lost in our own wishes for joy or demise
And yet we become shadows of perfectionism
Filled with the detachment we criticize.

Our representation is our perdition
We've lost ourselves in our own mission.

And I could gaze upon your eyes
Yet chose to caress your legs instead
You shiver in joyful dread
but my touch tells you no lies

Warm skin, tender contact
firmly pressed and packed tight
flawless motion, bodies reenact
sweaty bliss, arousing light.

Oh, shivering cold,
Oh, lingering end.
Oh, terminus untold,
Oh, verminous fiend.
Dear and everlasting trend,
Severe, loving old friend.

I leave the day to those outside exiles.
I leave the warm sun to the reptiles.

I want to feel the breeze in my face,
I want to run through the streets!
I want to feel my heart jump and race,
I want to dance to my own heartbeats!
I want to hear breathing from my chest,
I want to live fully, while all others rest.

I want motion to be perpetual and mine,
I want to feel everything, tipsy from wine.

I want your lips pressed against my neck
I want to be happy without looking back.

Now sadly I can’t yet write in iambs very brightly
I can only hope thee become trés pleased by this
I am not able of writing such masterpieces of poetry
Like Shakespeare, light crafts of beauty and Sorrow, fleur d’lys.

I solely can attempt to impress thy soul and being
By typing so eloquently, sadly believing you will ever feel
Such mill of emotion, sole construction of heart and thrill
For I be delighted to be lighting struck for witnessing

Such beauty.

Coin laying, metallic cold
Heavy, covering the eye lids
Cheap, this one ticket is sold
Quick, as his hurry bids.

This privilege I must attain,
Will my life be in vain?