If you woke up
Like this
You have the capacity to stay awake

With a sudden breath
The sands of time came and went
And with a couple of footprints, we imprinted the vehement sands

Hidden by the light
Showered by the talk of sunrise
Your pages welded with mine
In this book of utopia
And ideologies inscribed in the natural order
In the new order of the natural world
The rebels of the false positives, do not understand doves fly on wings of imagination
Like imago unhindered, really
Then maybe you're blind
And you need a pill that you can't take
Or is it a seed of doubt in your own reality
The years have been absorbed into you, and your fight's over
And revelations are at an end
But, you've learned than you haven't from anything
Out of thinness, there comes some inference
Of the thoughtful thinking, you do for my sake
And I'm disillusioned by my body reliant on a couple of images
Perceptive in nature
Judged by a scion
Above the dove of my imagination
How is that possible?
Be shapeless, my friend
Be shapeless like the water that reflects
Look at the moon and stars
Concentration is emotional content
Is something worth rhyming within this concept of emotion
Can we be boring again?

Feline lips
Tightened
Midnight living
Is or the uneasy awakening
Of the people affected
By corrupt intentions of purloining
Infected by the greed
Love is all you take in the beginning
The bitter high ground
Is like the pale blue sky
The reconciles with the perilous existence
Too bad, if this doesn't help
You should look at the grey clouds made of silver linings playbooks
Like new book readers
And newbies
I sip my coffee, bitter and sweet
Enumerable by the waves of sickness
That hit me in the perishing lands
By the sandy dustiness of places that are beyond
My time and the possessions, and the thesaurus
I keep in my bag reminds me of the words
You were, in my circumlocutory motioning
To the suns behind the thousand splendid times
In a land without mirages and mines, my legs feel like landmines
I can't walk on them anymore
On anymore
On the road
Far away from home, there is a system of the drowning sun
Antediluvian sun, don't come back from this rising sultry skeptical land full of light
Too me mirages are just objects that appear closer than they are
And dreams are made of these
I believe
If I believe in me
Then, I'm one with this homeliness
Then the feeling of being pecunious about my own nomadic tendencies
I probably roam in the bare wilderness
Tended to by psychedelic instances of the bitterness of a hundred blows
A hundred blows represent a hundred battles
Dealt with, in the dancing moonlight
The night sky covered senescence of a field that had seen a thousand suns
Hidden by light
Identifiable with the dark
Afraid of time and beyond

At the beggar's banquet
There are two kinds of worker bees
One in the blows of the breathless insects
With pollen for keeping, and the food they cannot respect
But, the honey lingers like the sweet
The lingering smell
Of the dew
Of a thousand years kept in a hidden hive
Imaginatively, the prey to the work was just canonical
And I worked really hard for my canines
And the square of that lines up with the 6 sides of a cell
Of nine lives
Like a cat curious enough to shake the hornet's nest, three times

The clusterfuck of thoughts
And the stars of confusion
It's all make-believe, isn't it

Jumping to conclusions
Leads to more
Thoughts in your deductions
Better follow the logical pattern of reasoning
Rather than questioning your own misguided beliefs

The sullied summer
The toil
Bring the ringing dead doorbell
Of bleeding angels like Lucifer
In Paradise Lost
Reigning in Hell, and lost in purgatory
Watching nowhere, however, down on me
Looking down on me, I mean
I mean, you ever have that feeling that you are walking in discomfit
That the perfect word that comes to you is in someone else's welcoming words
That's why we abuse like intellectuals, deprived of any wishful thinking

A world without words
A dream without focus
I might change my mind
If I wanted the problems of maintaining my sane sister
Called a metaphorical music
That keeps my muse on my mind
And my mind on my muse

Are thoughts your own exchange
I can tell
Maybe, you have surrendered to
Night terrors, and panic attacks
In the dark, as the room lies on uncertain
Displeasure seeks pleasure
And remorse comes in absentia
In the feeling of sensory deprivation
I find mental depravity, I do not find reprieve
In the deprived dream, I am walking without any ground under my feet
The thought of your love keeps me afloat

Feelings are sweet
Like tea and coffee
Often, the conversation is candid
But, thought of you thinking about me
Is really sweet
Is this fact, or acrimony
I love you as you do
As you like it
Is the thought of you interrupting my voracious reading
I find fiction fascinating when the thesis is real
Of lustrous lubrication of the primal instinct
That's why I think conversation flows
If you talk to people
And I'm among those people
In me, there's a crowd lurking beyond a social discomfort

Are you the kind of person who loves romantic poetry?
Are you the kind of person who loves recessing parts of rhythmic *******?
I wondered when your question would come in the form of poetic thinking if the feeling felt off
Did the left-wing ascend your very soul, or were you intermittently aware of your mind's pleasure?
The same hand that jerks around that thought of progression?
Is this just a consideration, or I am willing to say love is timeless?
Are thoughts without ideals, or are we free from our own inhibitions?
Did the second line shock you, or we expect to question from the thoughtful viewing?
That descended into ****** thinking around some form of critical reasoning?
Then, you aren't like me

The thoughts are provoking
Your necessitous thoughts that you collect
In your professing of love
And the kindness shared in the petals of the rose of the beauty so eloquently
The impulse, thoughtfulness and pressing matters of *******
They rivet in the circumstance of the talk of life
You make the population with your coitus
The flower of your love in the spiritual innocence
There is no old time sake, I mean the drink
The risqueness by which you hold those flowers
Makes if I want the same symbolism in my rich life
And if I thought about the past, it would be thrown like a sculptor's hand
Sullied by the system of marrying two concepts
The rose and the somnambulant feeling of your love
Keeps my love awake without the water
I'm sleepwalking into your trustful hands
The kiss would wait for a time
Sealed by a rose
Unwatered, wilting

You shuffle through the streets unnoticed
Sincerely yours
I have to keep your thoughts in my pocket
Shuffling through a pocket full of things in the process of unpredictability
I mess up my numb fingers cut up by the struggle of possessions
These things need my immediate memory

You are wasting in the recess
It's not in your mind
It's in the deity's rest that sleeps in a peace meant for others
That's why you never get ahead in life

The prose of the life that you revel in
Is the very reality that you dream about
Too bad the rest of the world doesn't agree on your alacrity
Maybe, it is better to be dishonest
About love as a serious plea
And accept that some of us looking for others rather than
More in another
Sharing is a possibility only if you are chiming in on the thoughts of the human misery

The conditions of rights of the people
Some of you like, this is on the government
Are the open signs of poverty in a country

I sweep flys of their feet
With the hand swiftly
Swatting it on repeat

If I died in the fiery explosion
Of some friend and the fire never burned
out
I would lit in his shadow
Engulfed by the encumbered thoughts
The preference for silence comes from this implosion

Ironically, every guy I go out with
Represents him
Unfortunately, poetry doesn't flow in that irony

The proper introduction would be friendship
If you take steps towards a life
Then it turns into love
However, heartbreak isn't that uncommon
Neither is a friendship that proper
The wife you left in the praying hall
Semblance there is some reminiscence
Of prizes that you keep in her name
Priceless expulsion of the faces that only look at you doubt
If you'd shut up about it, then, you wouldn't let us into these problems

The cults that heap in the hay
The straws that suppose
My body is made of passing pins
The ultimate reward is the success of the flip of a coin
The tresses of the trust that border social romance
The institutionalized sobered up the liberals
As the freedom was enslaved
Ignored about the three marauders
Pounced on the serf
Striped by the jungles of currency that is changing
But, not going extinct
We are stuck to our monetary exchanges we just surpass them
Hill of the doubt, flow around in the blue dye
The blue sky that reflects the sky of our rights
The doubts in the secret lives of poets
I told you I will write another one
In my own right

Light in your eyes
The song in the cerulean sky
The blue reflects in your sighs
The electricity is getting behind
I wish you would leave my shoe in the dust
The dust in your eyes
Remove your ambition
The thought like cyan
The intelligence reflected in color
And smartness in colored opinion
Overwhelmed by arguments and lessons
The prime of your protest is in a banner of the sundry
Marched asunder
The revolution came in the summer
But, the sky was red and flagged for communist propaganda
The red wave has now become a progressive idyllic
The cynics in the skeptic's eyes' look dismissive about the west wind
The ode to freedom is wrought with poetic
This is the secret lives of poets
The objects that make it sufficient for me
Fill my imagination with food for thought
Sometimes, contrivances are part of this logical progression
Are we going forward by doubting ourselves
Or keeping a hush on the activism
Except some people believe that words can make the difference
Between extremist ideology and where does, poetry comes
That's where the explicit matter is nudged in the middle
Of the secret lives of poets
In this sequestered sense, we are simply monikers looking for our own identity
As nameless, and spineless some people are
Writing helps liberate the mortal soul
Without forsaking your fame, you cannot have ideas
Hurt by this double-edged sword
We are the secret life of poets bound by welcoming words
And we found solace in our beautiful minds
That makes you special if you cannot write the special heading
On the road, the poetry page doesn't make interference in your daily lives
Tresses past which we are addressing our opinions, this is some mysterious separation of rhyme
In the secret lives of poets, we have no time
But, the eternal reflection can be quite quarrelsome if you don't seek compelling stories out of the waters that reflect in the iridescence
In this colorful descent, there is a question that lies
Where the yellow submarine is, there lies love for the underwater.
That's the state life in which we are, affected by the pronouns
With which we refer to the secret life of poets and the subject pronouns make sense when you accuse poetic device of being restrictive
That's where the secret lives of poets are engrossed poetic devices
The verbs are derivative of their nouns, and thinking is just an object
Secretly we are obsessed by this object of our wishful thinking
Writing about long stories, I revel in the concept of impressive interlocution
But, enough about me
This is a secret poetic plea
Believe us, probably
Intensity inasmuch
The extent of possible outcomes
I was hopeful about this poem, which was slightly influenced

Mister magic where is your machine at
Let's solve this at present
Give this a rest
Curiously, flying on the edge of life
Is like watching your belief in the system
Succumb to the crashing of waterfalls
Immersed within itself and absorbed by its own
It's just that being a victim of my own devices
Makes me no sorcerer

My bloated sense of ego
Bursts at the seams
Of what I call logic ergo

A court without a magician
A counsel without a jester
Makes for poor wit

The poodle stole
The noodles of sausages
And went on a roll among the rabble-rousers

The rising tide of dreams
And the pyramid of schemes
There's a false bottom in each feeling
That's called sleepwalking
Apparently, happens to those who lie awake
Thinking about their stake
In their profitable lives
You're bound to get caught
After all, lady luck is fickle

The speaking of whispers
That simplicity of love
Is the question of eternity
Depends on whether we speak the language or not
Speak in tongues if we may
That we cannot understand
The life you give to this very day
To procreate in this universe
Gives us more to reason to cry in joy
Silently listen as I sing goodbye

Belief in yourself
Breaks the bubble that is
Build on the sheer concept of flight
Depends on whether you want to count stars
After falling

Lithe in the midriff
The pithy sayings in the time
Lost by the sunflower sutra of spiritual development
The stiffness you bring makes my head spin
The rhyme of puns and the jokes you meander around
The maxims of lost dimes
The tipped waitresses
And I thought I was simply looking at a flower
Honey

Cinderella twirled her glass shoes
The complexities of fitting one
Weren't transparent enough for us
To realize that you were special for us
The sincerity with which you wear ever blue
It's like looking at the horizon
With God's glass feet
The sky is translucent
The sight of the stars
Is what makes the objects appear so close
The light shines on us for centuries from lightyears

This is the story of a message in a bottle
It was quite the large bottle
That told stories of seafarer journeys
That ended with tempests and surprise
The container couldn't float and what was inside of it
Contained and imprisoned by a prisoner's dream
A ship map in the form of footsteps
Bottles traveling many miles
Only bring for further development
I wasn't sure when being stranded on that island
Was the rescue being charted out by anyone who saw a bottle
Capsizing in the middle of the ocean blue

The buses on fire
The crowd of children
A tempestuous gaze could
Can dismember the whole age of innocence
There's simply no weight to carry

You aren't awful
Unless you've earned it
The learned considered it blasphemous
How recessive this feeling of lack of self-esteem is

Clarity is the only
Freedom of thought
That is unviolated by people's influence

The pill of reality
Is bitter
So, don't cry over spilled milk

The simplicity of tradition
Is worshipping every
Religious revelation without volition

Simplicity in it's
Most convenient explanation
Is being devoid of extinction

Having a way of life
Explained to you
Is like wearing socks in your idol's shoes

The pristine dream
Imprisoned
By hands and feet
These thoughts are the only reality

The ability to roll with the punches
Allowed me to fight my way out
But, I wrote about the violence

They called it prying
It was a tragedy
That you didn't see it coming

The suspense was real
It was so real
That writing them in 17 syllables is a probability

There was the flurry of ideas
Stillness in the land
Superstition held the people together
Apparently, they hated the bad luck

The mossy tiles
Keep the earthworms
Away from the sun
Aware of the sparging of seeds
Germinating out of the ground
Like sullen saplings

The earth is quenched
The idea is to get
Love drenched

The ocean touched upon the horizon
That's when I realized God arrived
Although we could not see
Where the rainbows and the clouds meet
We saw it in the reflections of still water
Like a stillborn baby
Born without a heartbeat

The lean mean man
Is a thin starved person
I can see light traces of you in those eyes
In the darkness of moonlit streets

The lassos that touch the sky
Pull it down
Maybe, I should keep my head in the clouds
Near clods and the lassos touched the stars