The bud of a delicate being
Awakening to a sun ray, daintily
Dries in the rainy splore while birds flee
Lisping in the cacophony of the wings

After every morning shower as the nest empties
The flower goes to sleep with the tall trees
Where the smoke of a stoked fire burns
Whilst choking the breeze and the birds

Brightly clasping onto the clutches of the  sky
Where the sun showers on its hue
And puts on a glorious smile in the afternoon
Hiding behind a penumbra, waiting to blossom

Fleeing as ghosts do from an enchanter
The bud cascades freely in the desert air
Where the stares of nearby petals wander
As the fragrance of a blossomed flower laces the air

The more I look around
I see people involved
In their lives, with another lover

Writing short poems and expressing
Deeper thoughts, only to fit in
With the masses

Maybe, this poem is too patterned
To my taste, but, that is how I feel
Why cannot a rose be a rose?

It is strange
How women adore the right men
But, despise the wrong one
Love is so right
So broken in its ideals
So wrong in its beauty
And so pathetic in its necessity
An entire generation pushing babes
Into cinema screens
Dealing slave work for women
And women only
Women are beautiful
Only because they think they need
Men

I am dead
Only God lives
You must find him
He lives in my bones
Strewn like cigarette ashes
He seeps into my flesh
That has lost its yearning
He laughs in excitement
Through my wide eyes
If you look at my skull
You will see, I am not blind

Lonely and dreadful
Is the night
That does not come after day

To write a lyric on your scrounged out drawers
Would be war of a poet's smiles
So, I take a flower from your hat
Are you Thomas or Bob?
I can't ignore the broken corners near the eye

You need **** the thirst of buds
With the graves of men and women
Bow at the altar of the Joan of Arc
As she billows like the flames and blood

Everything is faded
As she fakes
Like a guileless child
Or a woman who is mine

He: so do you want to go out?
She: does that mean dinner or bed
He: maybe, you aren't that pretty
She: so, I guess bed.

It's a lovely day
I bring flowers for you from
A green bayou that has become muddied
With our memories

The books lay bare
Strewn like the reeds
And seaweed on the surface of the flimsy
Waters, where water lilies once lived

War and peace lives harmoniously
A cricket beats, a bird sings
The dead land breathes, and so do
I, where the water flows to

Why are women so forbidden
If love is the first impulse we have?

The moon often visited
Our house
Looking at it from a distant window
Some nights would pass
As we would stare at the lit-up stores
Under streets of rain and fire
On the fire they would cook
Under the rain, they would drink cups of tea
As the rain would turn into heavier downpour
The cars would never come to a halt
On the fire the blood and sweat would become apparent
To bystanders
Not us who were busy wondering where the moon would be
The tea held by cupped hands would merge with the petrichor
As the days passed into absence of rain
I would wait and wait for the people to drink their chai
Under the comfort of my roof, I would wait
Wondering the homeless men who would return to nowhere
The petrichor absent for a long time
That was the season of love
I haven't felt that in a long time
Now the smell, too, has disappeared
The moon still visits
But, the wait no longer helps

When people ask me, after you have gone
What am I?
I say I am no one in this vast world of contours
Thoughts and dreams
Colors that could make the body of my poems
Where your love finds freedom, releasing warmth in them
Now I know no color
No real tragedy
The only tragedy I know is
When people asked me what I was
I said,"I am a poet."
With every the dignified response
The rejoinder was often
"Why was I so sure in a world that writes more than it reads?"
It was because I had you as my inspiration
I was your poet
Who confessed his sins to your soul
The sameness with which we kissed too was poetic
A zephyr that would blow across your hair
That too was poetic
Now, all that remains
Are fragmented lines
Of a fragmented love song
Of a heart completely
Broken

Shall I compose a tragedy
On the canisters of meat and food lined on empty stores
Next to the aisles as sold-out grocers
Tomorrow is no place for the stares of vegetables

The depths of the ocean are blank not blue
As the deck of the ship under the sun without a tune
Captain's call reaches a few onboard
Tomorrow surrounds us like dew on a leaf flown

Shall I compose a tragedy
Pile lines after lines, as they do in slaughter houses
Deciding whether to leave a smell of freedom
For the prisoners inside

Tomorrow is not for the man on the pavement
For it may be the coldest winter next
Tomorrow is not for the grieving widow
If she were to find love behind the locked door

Softly laced
Between your legs and mine
You breathe short heavy sighs
As I kiss your rhymes with mine
Your twilight sky glimmers
Only the horizon
Intertwined with my hips
Press your lips
Hypnotize my eyes
Our love will birth a child
From this small prize
As your back bows
The sun in your eyes will leave
Till then,
Stay in my embrace and cry
Let the sceptred snake slither
Under your torso and adjacent to your limbs
Caress every crevice
I'd say I love you
Just feel the leather
Of the serpent

People watched
As girls jumped from
Bridges
To their death
The ones who waited on
The porch
Were the ones who found love
Then died with old love

The words 'I love you'
Are just right for us
For lovers with time and space
I have no sense for those lines and essence

I do not talk to women
I talk to my friends in my sleep
When, I wake up
The world wakes up hot in the afternoon

As I pick out each petal for you
People will fall in love with its dew
When the flower loses its beauty
Becoming bare like dead leaves you tread through

That is when I will say
'I love you'
That flower shall spring to life again
Till then, I wait for the you

Time to paint the world red

Why are men essentially
Different from women?
Ask yourself as a feminist
If you would do unto a man
What man wouldn't do unto a woman
In that perspective, it becomes clear
That men and women are quite similar
We can restrain ourselves
Only that women are less restrained
It should be noted that emotions have a role to play
However, to assume gender empowerment
It is necessary to find similarities
Between each gender
Thus, we can live harmoniously
Unless male patriarchy is the ultimate hindrance
To feminine sexuality

Under his skin
He lives with his thoughts
That break free from the emptiness inside
From the creases and wrinkles
Comes two sides

Like youth shows from a young one
One face is the smile
A face seen by all
Comes from the exasperated innocence
Of a boy who once lived behind those blue eyes

Embrace that smile and joy
For the real side which belongs to you, not him
He will never understand
His own happiness
Without you, he is a broken man

The knots of her
Mind lay undone
Like a ball of wool
Waiting to be spun

The average worker can work for 15 hours
A man can provide for his children a meal a day
Children lose the ability to educate themselves
Once they start work, a stated routine, a stated marriage
They are someone else's property
Man is the only creature, that let's their fathers die in the jungle
And their mother die in someone's arms
Man is the only creature, that can tan-hide his brother
But, there is a stated routine for the brothers
For the brothers need to be bred for work
Like milked cattle on milch barns
All standing in long lines waiting for the next mile of grass
Man can **** man over some grass and coke
By grass I mean land
By coke I mean a limey drink for 20 cents
I guess men could be better without their possessions
Imagine it without the drugs or bummed smokes
Imagine life without the movie stars and all the signs
There is a stated routine in how we keep buying
Putting our mattress kings to sleep on cushioned beds
While our workers eat the pavement and dirt every fine day
Like I said man can **** man, over money and love
How ironic that money buys love.

If we as human beings are meant to bring reason
Bring water out of stone
Create fame from fortune
Then, what comes next
Probably, the study of relevant subjects
That entice us, but, what do we crave
Many of us wonder, if we want a happy ending
Honestly, we want to have an ending
The story should end, even if it not be remembered
In that sense, we are truly capable of reasoning
As reasoning requires to reject the praise and goodwill of others
For a purposeful end
If we shall truly reason, we cannot let our beliefs sway
Let alone be moved by the storm of emotion or doubt
If our mind is a sail boat, let it find it's way
On a vast ocean of rationalism
However, we will always question our own self
Seldom, trusting the route
If trusting the wind
Is faith
Reason is having trust
In your sails, as the wind may come to a calm halt someday
That is God's will, perhaps.

We are naked when born
Choosing our place among forlorn ancestors
After death, a structured life denotes our span
Our modern thinking will not save the hunger pangs
For the meals are crisp, delightful as religious rites are

Born are we to serve our fathers
Who give everything to their fathers
Living a life of servitude
Never striding next to kings
What of the princes knowing no solicitude

We are only mere classmates
In a college of wisdom
Wizened by the plight of our teachers
To lead a nation or cure cancer
We are naked to ourselves, as we are simply accident-prone

If we linger on in this blue planet
Life most come to a tragic end
Where the followers of the chapel proceedings
Get the most out of this age-old tradition
Often divorcing logic from religion

For future foresight
You need philosophy
For short term analysis
You need mathematics
As he future being an object of fear in our premise
We base our notions on falsities
Perhaps, we fear the truth
Or we fear what the truth is behind all the mumbo jumbo
Understanding these things
We can say that from our roles as human beings
To accept the truth
Is to create the story of our lives
Unedited, original and unforgiving to the real version
Let us write our own life in water colors
Let us paint the sky with our skin
The skin will be tainted with golden fire
And our life will be a mere reflection of the heights of achievement
Let us embody our work, as poets

The sea is riled
Driven by hunger's embrace

Clasped arms
Like a seaweed's sewn lace

In the mirage of watery beings
A siren emerges without a trace

These are a thought of you
That I yearn

I still drown in your memory
And have a lot to learn

You can restore yourself
Heal your loveless heart if you must
Because the love you have now
Is just an idea of what is about to come
I am talking about the journey
You will cross many roads
Meet many beings of strange souls
Some may not even have souls
I do not mean evil, but, anything
That has words has no soul at times
Imagine, a parachute that tears mid-way
But, saves your life
These are what lush pastures in the mind present
The living daydream that human consciousness is
And nightmares that dreams are to many men
That live in the past

The value of power
Is in the hand of the employed men
Then, why do we consider the power currently
In the hands of authorities, an unrighteous force?
Christianity, considers power an unrighteous sin
A powerful force that can carry out the most immoral actions
Hence, the more you understand the ideas of God, the more you will realize
That our established societies break the boundaries
Of what is correct and incorrect, just to sway from this unequal force
Will deny that most of our ideals are equivocal or questionable
But, what about our wants
Let us ask ourselves, is it wrong to want liberty?
Maybe, according to Aristotle who said the city-state need not
Necessarily promote liberty

We look at ourselves unknowing of the consequence of our actions
We may exist for the betterment of others or the detriment of others
As much as we may believe that the truth is our good facet
It fades with time as we develop an understanding of ourselves
The essence of human nature often requires we understand this through poetry
In poetry, the truth can take many shapes and pull us to an imaginary platform
However, despite the truth fading not being an essence of human nature is true
The strength of something righteous or an understanding of good is required to propel the truth
The truth may gain meaning, but, people may benefit of off lies
That is human nature, not the concept that truth fades into fugue
A spiritual fugue such as a car salesman struggling with his job engages in speaking a lie
He is not being indulgent, he is simply lying to survive
Surviving is the true essence of human nature
That is why the truth may or may not fade from the human conscience
Multiple conceptions of the truth are good
Many interpretations of what is the truth are not
As the person, thus, becomes capricious in his pursuit to spiritual development
So, it is the struggle to survive or become a spiritual being
The truth shall not always set you free

If our love were lavish as affectionate
Moor and mire would swallow my sallow breath
With trees and lack of remorse, ******* would flower
Flocculent and bright as the sun that shone in her hair
Godly grace, I beg my witless lies should be spoken
Among the goodly men with their enervated women
Such lithe beings would emerge from a youthful glance
I would ask myself how does appear the chance
In the face of fear, I would forget my enemies
And make love my ultimate goal for thee
In such apprehension many lovers shall turn away
I instead ask let us have long love’s day, well spent
For in thee, I find my heart’s words and speak
As well as the air often associated with the pale and meek

I see myself in the blue depths of a grey cloud
On a garden in golden fields, except everything is green

Beyond the conscious knowledge of sky and sound
In between you and me, nothingness is a sound

Like a dream
Nothing lasts forever, but, what is a day in the living consciousness?

We have the same blood that makes us so aware
So wary of another, in this despair we share our heart and soul

Will our institutions last
Or is man the only species that will light up a dark alley

We criticize ourselves when others don't look
And criticize others when we look for answers

The love lost
Can be gained
Through friendship

The wall will be stained by time
The ink will wash away, but, the words remain
Without some solicitude and kindness
Perhaps the words will lose power

I don't know why the garden behind a lulled neighbourhood
Reminds me of the forgiving past
When, I jotted my thoughts from the start
As a pale boy

Understanding the road of violence taken
Many ideals ceased to exist until poetry came
Maybe, because of white privilege
But, the Bible is all we had for freedom

Now that black lives matter, thorns stub your head
As the nail impairs the prolonged hammer
We write for a culled audience
Dealing with prejudice, with our hands tied

Things are not black and white anymore than before
It is my duty to see the color
Life is more than warm and white color
Like blooming flowers grasping their innocence

Life is a beautiful wonderment
It isn't born of acceptance
A dirge-like procession always carries on
Yet, indelible writings are on the wall

I ain't got nothing to do
On this pale afternoon
Just to sit and write you line
Maybe I'll open a cold soda
Think of memories and hold 'em
Hell, it's been a long time
I reckon you are doing well
I may not read about you
But that's alright
I suppose the way you faced me
In my bed
When I'm soulless and losing my head
I can't get next to you
I reckon you are doing well
Little homesick
But, that will pass
I reckon you are doing well
May is lonesome without you
In summer
With the whispers of love becoming unheard
Now my heart tries find you
Like the blues
Confused about what it really needs
The truth of the matter
All I need is to get to you

Red trees
Turn the day
Into dead nights

If I could walk in shadows
I would hide my untoward steps
In the sands of forgotten time
If I could **** myself quickly
I would by asking for a slow death
That everyone would cease to remember my gift
Or desire it even
If I could hide in a waterfall
I would stride as rivers do
To an eminent downfall
Like an imminent dictator being put to rest
If you want life's things to come to you
Fight for it till your last breath dries
Into a simple word of woe
I have hinged from a dozen blue oceans
I have thousand miles on me like a man in a graveyard
But, I am no more closer to being alive

The notes lay beside the pile
Like a pavement near the sky
The sun rises on the east side
Like an apartment on the Upper East side on high rise
My desires are many and sensual
When will they make their mark
I live in a time where the stark appetite of a tiger and fish
Like peace and war cannot co exist
But they do so well in the crawling ground of forests
Maybe we can go back to old times
Or we can forgot about the rivers
Have you ever seen the rain fall on the caboose of a banyan tree
The leaves of the pine trees often flutter on a hillside
The spines have become sculpted into architecture
Like the frieze on the Greek columns resources from gold mines
Can we go back to the past
Where we weren't dying or living
Or when we never met
This is where I make my mark and stand my place

In the core of the earth
Where the lumbered folk lie
The sleepless sorrows and the humble pies
Never say goodbye
They leave the lambs with a blood red stain
The dawn of the new man could sputter a semblance of poems
They work hard and keep their pay
They work hard and mark their territory
Yellow rivers follow the shores
Often where do the sheerly brilliant trouts go
Amidst the eglantine against the flow
Into the wolves lair and their red ice
Where they have just had their fill
Along the polar lake under the Godly dome

I live to sail
On the shores
Everywhere
In this simple rhyme
I cannot say
The sails on a ship
Are taking me somewhere
The probe will tell me today
My dreams are for today

The reason you should
Write
Should not come from someone else
It should be purely your own
Intrinsically melted with your identity
Like the flame that sings from the softness of the ground
Slightly tepid like the mind of a writer
The reason you should
Write
Should not come from the bookstore
Looking for love and drugs in your poetry
If it is the drugs then leave it
If you are looking for ****** on some avenue
Leave the trade
Move away and let an honest man
Take your space
That is why I write

I ask myself
Is there more that meets the eye
In the pursuit of happiness
Do I cry
If I am glad
Or I am rife with sadness that rings in my temple
Like a block of ice broken against a hammer
The deeper I get
The colder and harder it is
So, I say is there more than that meets the eye
It is all a figment of the ember of your imagination
Melting the ice into a trickling stop

I have written this one before
The nights getting longer
The poem is getting shorter
It beckons me to think
Now I have act
Feel I must
Because thinking is tearing me apart
One half seeks resolution
And the other half replicates the other
I am in conflict
Like a gun in the midst of the toil of war
Racial war may be
Where black isn't white
And white isn't all they think they are
I suffer the same diminished ego
But when the lights go dim
Both the swirly halves turn into drizzling rain merging with puddles
The puddles.
Feel I must.

I tried writing about nature
All I did was stare outside
Hoping the sky would fall with inspiration
Instead it rained
I got some bad ideas
In my despicable head

Here I am
Urging people to stay alive
Look at me with no girlfriend
Or wife
I am a writer
In a suicidal trade
A suicidal situation
Asking men to take my free advice
To their grave

If your poems
Go into the flush
And they lose meaning
Don't pull the plug
As long you aren't being demeaning
If you aren't published
Don't feel bad
People won't notice you
Unless you notice yourself
The dead won't turn in the grave
For your inexorable talent
They will not Cahill
Saying who is better
If you do not come to compare
Because they are dead
And you just might be better
Than the unoriginal writers
Out there in the starry world
That offers stars and moon
For a sky that has only a midnight spoon
Which curls quietly till it
Culls the daylight
It won't be afternoon
Till you say that it was all
Too late or too soon

The problem I have often
Faced lies within the layers
Of the imagination
All I have to do is imagine
They aren't there and they
Vanish

The great thing about poetry
Is its simplicity
The more you write
The better it gets

People often say
If you have ideas
Why don't you use them
It is probably because
I worry about being rich
And die trying
My entire life
As they say to be drunk
And die at the age of 30
Or be sober and die trying
At the age of 60

This is not a class
To lead by example
After every sentence
Reminding peons
Of your quirk
And why the clerks
Should be you
I am no Waits
Or the iron gates
I am no summer's day
But I am better
I am the cry from sullen earth
That says stay alive
Because tomorrow is another day

If nobody rose to expectations
People would stop to look
If nobody had belief
People would stop being realistic
If nobody cared about you
Nobody would
Neither you

There is a bird
On my window
Without a song
The room is dead
It has been for long
A furlong farther
You will find a raven
Her claws and feather
Are made of fear and loathing
Soon she shall look
The other way
When the sun sets
The dead will wake up
The dead