There is no heart
You just
Transcend your beliefs

Lights out at 7:09
At the right time
I come to you in many rhymes
Depends on how you look at your wine
As it's aged into
Skip into morning 7:09
The repose of yesterday's intoxication
Is in the form of a knife
And within those 12 hours, my doors were latched tight
My covers weren't warm, they were alright
The shoved cloth, that arrested the hands that were already tied
I died of medical causes, or maybe, I became blind
I'm haunted by the very thing that helps me sleep at night

The light will still be with you
When you read into the rustling reeds
The darkness of the ocean will drown out the reflection
There are plenty of fish in the sea

The ember of time
Lights like a fire
In the embracing of a concept
That took a nightcap
And the candid, are really sure of the phone call
That lit up the thirst for knowledge
Of redundant problems that require further realization
It's feeling, no modus operandi, no feeling of veritable nature
In this compromising mother of nature
Since the wide eyes fallaciously wake
And the indolent breezes that wash over me like sirens
The loudness of the morning sun wakes me up
Like the smiling Sun prays for the unnurtured
From the dark, you can see the light
If you dig further into your force of nature

Feeling the pieces
Ferrying the mandate
Across the races
In the splintered waters
Of the glacier-like iceberg
We just hit the tip of the frozen brook
And we screen so low
To reach new heights of ruin
The antecedent of this being, inherent good

Wishes based on race
By the segregation that divides
Is like a half-life, that cuts like a fish in the sea
Pieces of man, cut into flesh and bone
The sins for which the white man has to atone for
Is in the brown-eyed soul of a disillusioned handsome man
Biased on blues, radiating the whites of their eyes
The skin so pale
The flagging it with any banner
Would make a political motto
Seem like a motto for gender fluidity
If you believe in yourself
Be a part of what you are, instead of being sexually minute
Your own stronghold on words is bullish rhetoric
And when we almost died inside
We marked our territory by identification of face
Our existence simply a consequence of racial profiling
What matters is that we bleed our own music?
That's called freedom of thought in this century of post-modernism

The westlands symphonic
With torrid arguments that wasted away
That felt different indeed

The pact kept me
In the de facto love
In the de jure soul
In an inured state of penury

Take me to this river
Of dreams
In which I seem to love diving into without knowledge
Without the depth
And the age of the river
It isn't worth swimming
Take me to this river
The sixteen hours that pass by in the day
Seem like the nights are longer
In this moment in time
If the thighs linger on the shores of a dock of the bay
The carefree youth of air touching your face
The hair leaving your slandered mind
Scalded by the hot water
By, the very river that keeps you in my mind
Keeping a couple of purgatory's memories
Sitting on a portal full of doubt
The love is in this water body
The meandering brook perspicuously describes my life
Away from the clear waters
Take me away from the river
The reflection is palpable
The satin is reflected in the breathable satin dress

Stones and starstruck bones
Faltered by the winding clock
And the single thing I remember
My love for the untouched pages
Couple of snowflakes
Walk in a crowd
It's impossible to find the odd one out

This I know about transience
It is the abiding
Of the unsurpassed law of self-improvement

The human nature doesn't deceive
In some emotions
I found your instinct match my life
It was the smell of the battlecry
In a town of full agrarian economists
Who realized the buckwheat was the staple
Of this life of lateral paradigms
Being single, it feels like I'm a single market economy
Constraints in my ****** positions
Might be uneconomical for our desire for leisure
We sit and stare
Not knowing what Renaissance statues atop of Vatican structures hold
From the boughs of humanity and sounds of silence
Rising from the troughs of the highs and lows
Comes a sepulchral cry
Of a passion that might die

Tiger burning bright
In the forests of the night
The years of immortality
Didn't help our mentality
But, we looked for hunger in the unforgiving
Like jungles, we were populated by the very things we could bite
As we unleash wilderness on each other
We follow the other end of the circle of life

The ****** footprints
Of the myopic
Make for the best clues of your vivacious poetry

The silence resounds in the constant
Typing of meaning
In my meaningless existence
Apparently, madness is all I have
And sobriety is some path to reference
And that righteous thinking, and the working-class men
I represented by the exchange of roles
And the existence doesn't look the same
When you're tired
Apparently, we were both tired of the problems
That one of us underwent a sad demise
In the case of your rumination, I make some compromise

The silence resounds in the constant
Typing of your name
In my heart, that is shaped into a typewriter

You explained empathy
In the thoughts of literature
Or sympathy, though I don't need it
I'm ******* getting carried away
So, you can carry that weight?

The freeloading leader
Kept his ticket
For the ferry of freedom

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