The girl caught in the wire
Knows the right way and shows fiery pride
Instead, of taking the sunshine and more
Clasping the delicate rays with her parched palms

Leaving desolate prisoners inside
A dark day made only of steel cages
They will let in the light, those lying in the shadow
It's blazing outside, it is bright

Cold waters will calm, then turn the tide
Soon the cursed world will die
Women can see the sun when it swallows the earth
It is a ball of hope saving them from guns and guards

Their dreams will turn to ashes
Mothers with empty wombs love them just the same
To them their daughters haven't seen the rain
The sun grins from behind grey clouds and sighs

Soon, freedom will come within their reach, fast
And these daughters will get stuck deeper
The dream slips faster than sand in an hourglass
They deserve love from the depths of hell itself

Until one of them dies by the bullet or ****** disease
They don't belong to them, do they?
These pigs moan if their houses are made of gold
The white men want oil fields with them working

Serious poems are tough to read
I like poets who can express themselves
Through realism and simple words
Ironic...

There is a word or two
A cartographer if we go in one piece
There's prose and it's about to get long
It can get opaque and you see the scenery
THere's no place to change who are you and if you left him
Did you break your heart or your leg
If he got you in the midriff is this the best you should expect
Men can be nasty teasers
Fighting for you
The stance on the women and the experience of how paintings still feel.
Thespians are taking over is the feeling of millennial pie in the old English millennial idiom
There's a nasty stranger reading a novel far away
There's a chance that the place you're at is a violent storm
There's a right you have kept
It's the rendition of a short story of Jack Kerouac
Beats me how the place hasn't changed with such green spin on everything
Breathless by the imaginations of long prose, captivate them by the lines
Present a story and bring them to the end of a very poetic journey and protect that it's that last journey you're going t have with them
Some busy people know by now
There's a prettier character in the other person
You'll realize you've ****** them both in the end
A simple end of to a prose
How could you?
There begs the question if there should be storylines in the poetry
Or write novels on free platforms

I'll search the towns
The sun is ours
Let us live
Like these are our last hours

Everyday I relive this time
I will never feel alive
I will never give up this fight
Like these are our last hours

As we are lost in them
Your tears come falling instead
The pain just ebbs
What was love has now left

A simple thought
Can explain a complex emotion
But, silence explains everything
Except, the sunflowers

Wanted to start with an honest take
On T.S. Eliot's fulmination towards criticisms
Regarding the debater, Mr. Grierson's
Point of view on metaphysical writings
In purview of genuine poetic dissertation and discussion
Presentation of the nuances of poems are intriguing
Wherewithal that there is a diligent approach taken
To study John Donne and Cowley
Marvell, one  of the social upheavilists
Of this time t'was real t'was true to naturalism
However, Goethe points out " in their unnaturalism they poised on naturalism"
There is a lot to say for Mr. Eliot's debate
Not too much for Mr. Grierson's review of some good old fashioned
Amorous verse, inasmuch it bewitches the languid sensuality

Often the purer and fairer opposite ***
Through genuine use of wit and impressive stoicism
A thoroughly metaphorical use of the term "stoic"
Can be attributed to the use of complex imagery
It would be interesting if one drew parallels
On the concepts of love and spirituality
It is expressed in reading that deals with rapid association of thought
English language canon and poetic implication are there, of course
Basically, what the poet is trying to say and the implicit understanding
Between a lover and a mistress
One could say it is a conversation or a nuanced conversation
Between the reader and poet
Such is the metaphysics of women and their love for genuine metaphor
It is often the velleity of the poet to write in such esoteric language
Therefore, one could understand the heterogeneous ideas potrayed
In each poetic verse of Donne's repertoire cannot be
Misconstrued as unnecessarily analytic
Almost like the dissection of a patient in surgery
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts

The role of an artist is not to look away
I see people and their nature change, but, they're all the same
Man is a genius when he is dreaming of shelter from the rain
Some of these men have ambition, as well as intelligence
That gives them wings, and I cannot afford to hate anyone
As long they don't avert their eyes in silent judgment
We are what we do, then, by that logic excellence is something of a habit
But, what we wetlanders must do, is never hide the inner moonlight
Because that's where madness pops in blue limelight of ****** footprints
Snowy mountains and black white reels of cinematography pile up into digital from analogical death
Rebirth in the Phoenician death of epistemological numinous ashes
Spirited away by the talent of many, and ambition of too few

In sadness
In pain
In your thoughts
And scents
I find happiness
Down memory lane
Sprinkled with heartache
Like autumn leaves
On road of bare trees
Shriveling and shivering
In the cold November day

Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ******, kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem

If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger,  roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines

Does the sender dance to the tune of the rights
Does the messenger believe in love and call it food
Love letters washed in limbo, I've stopped
Sands and jaded solace of Soho and the midnight lurks hanging like gallows stark in starlight just like we hugged
The arms of the machinist broken by the assuaged quirks


We won, and this integrity of the jejune kind
A lively berry in the possibilities and
Probabilities of time, flickering crystalline face like the mirror across your sea
Ripe and the average
                                                                             Brit ****** mystery


doesn't excite your insightful side
Here something for you, to remember, I have
drawn the lines to tell
                                                me where does it draw to my incubation
Something that makes this broken poetry

Sounds complete when                    you are reading enough from me
Trending poem, titled indelible plenary
How is it really?

You can be my date
My chocolate cake
Taking my breath away

But, you are the stars in the sky
So far away

I have waited
Waited for someone
Is it the same date
Often, you may cascade unknown
It is all in your waiting
The clouds are full and wilting
You cannot clutch them
They escape like tilting dark sky
Well, that's an anachronism
You cannot change everything
If you think you have control over the present
It is better forgetting the past
Without a sense of authority or freedom
You may be a preacher
You will never be reliable
Or as certain as time
Or the verisimilitude of rhyme
Realize, that poetry is just romance
It is the people at the front of line
Who get what they want
The others wait for their chance

I was born in the rain
Asking will life relive its pain
Came to me in a dream
Seems to me since I was born to scream.

On and off and on again
Seems to me I'm preparing to drown in pain
But after recognizing my old folks
I appears to be unreal.

I don't remember much
After all I couldn't say much
But I remember landing my first punch
How with elation I heard his cheekbones crunch.

My childhood wasn't easy
Nor was it crazy
It was spent introspecting
While being mistaken for staring helplessly.

Finally, now I'm a grown up
Puberty happened instantly
'Cause I was inside me
And I could never get out.

That was until I met my first girl
She could send the boys' hearts in a swirl
Any misogyny
And she would send them back in egotistic whirling fury.

We finally grew old together
Life did relive its pain a lot faster
But at least she didn't die in vain.
Now that's a sad story.

We never came here, our love was too unkind
Two people in love, the extras an escape
Our love became empty, shapeless, and blind
My lungs blackened by the poisonous heartbreak

We lay sprawling on the chairs
The light hung from the ceiling as the stars do
Spending the night at the museum
We saw the dead and their skeletons crawl

Soon their impatient breaths turned insidious
I talk about the dead workmen with rotten breath
And the lively crows going to another country
We were stuck in the museum past sunset

Yes, we have work to do before we die
We have to tell the truth and live a lie
Stay back and earn our share
For no one else does care

If we love our life too much

"The role of an artist is not to look away." A famous quote by Japanese director, Akira Kurosawa is a study into the human side of photographers or film technicians and the generic "role of an artist." We should not be ignorant and therefore, careless, to things that might not concern us. Being insightful and thorough is the route to perfect your art.

The thunder got locked into the dreary sky
Knells, kettles, little nullified and filling voids rather easily
I in the waters had some hundred men, with fibs and pies
Who was looking for a way to make waves with rib-steaks
The beast wandering the houses reeking of suicide
Take me, don't be afraid, grab me by the neck
The sea next to the northern droning ocean
Take me through the cloudy crosswinds, running far
Beyond adventure and danger beyond the Tenerife bay
Take me down like the killer down best friend lane
Friendly with the rider in the south
Stormy with the strength of the crowd
Fluent with the crime, knowing of the curse
All this knowledge is in vain if you suffer from being unloved

The aggressors can't be named if the service is forever
The version of your story is just lip-servicing
Equating the flexing flight of the mind, reeling in your doubts
The ebony and ivory of the piano man speakers, ringing the terse team of bandleaders in the sociable house
Gustave Flaubert lemme leave like the wind, inert in the auberge
Submerged condo, semaphoring in this serious veritable wine
The train of the trident offal rises to the shore, the smoldering
The effect of the fact of the scientific fact
The temerity of the fruitcake turned out to be an eggbox
Short of the 3 rotten eggs, I broke the rest of my cracks in the yonder China's
China's is churning out the Russian socialist revolution
Keeping all your eggs in another basket for you, trade unionizing
Unionizing, the humble job of the little free and the trees and the dated deeds
I'm sure your history correct, and the ***** statues look nice to your buildings
Monumental tragedy, the system of the ideological home of the Lord
The tocsin of a couple of sins, in the alarm-clock dream
The nun summed up my sins in one
Sell out of the sucre of the embarrassing crowd of faux pas behavior
The demeanor of the surreptitious invaders, guilt-ridden
The trill and striding ruse, that can criminally break principles
The women represent the principle of hating God
Men represent revelry in his love
An earring of six figures puts them in the same dour story
Let's not get sour about the salty crisps, scouse accent out of the south

What do I do these days?
As I sway in a romantic way
I hear the yellow flower turn
I listen to the woods of the swamps slightly forlorn
The staircase points downward, I am lost
When the cars wheel by the pondering eyed strangers
The shores of oceans don't have legs
A soul hollow as the kind blue flower and fruit
Blossoms in the summer-youth which rots the skin to the shin, losing it's rind

It's a surprise to see
In your ashen coil under a sycamore tree
Where you have lost your lonely virility
Where is your heart these days, my child?
Lost in the vigil of the votive offerings of sunflowers
Till the next time
We will see as the tepid wind swells and boils
The effervescent water coolly blows into my eyes
As I sway in the straits of hasty affairs filmed and tinted in romantic lies, my faithful violet

I’m out of line
You’re posing in front of the sign
I’m trying to drive
I give you five
But I can’t do much from sitting in my car
Yes you’re gonna be a star
Same with politicians I guess
They stand in front of your political beliefs
When you don’t know where you’re going
And you’re in a mess
Everyone acknowledges what he’s doing
But if they are in a hurry
They should still consider looking at the next sign
Instead of getting in a flurry of activity

After all who’s sign is it anyway
Not the government
‘Cause every time I go down the street
I see the foundation of a pavement
It homes homeless people and street musicians alike
We need to put the person who steals our land
His head on the spike
Or our hearts will vote for a future promising a fist full of desert sand
Of hatred and coerced communism
That stinks of an ideal that never reveals
Of truth that never sets you free

Once part of the legislative team
Their pockets turn into the antithesis of autumn leaves
That start of as rusty during campaigning and during their swearing in they turn green
Now tell me what should we do with the people who steal our signboards
Or our right to see the signboards
To find our direction
Instead of believing like simpletons
In leaders who believe in a second term is and that a statue in their name needs *******

Simply put we should find our leaders
Instead of them finding us
We should catch them stuffing their pockets
Before they catch us stuffing ours
Not let anyone block what is ours
So that they can propagandise for hours
We need a tolerant leader that sees all
Stays once and allows us to search for options instead of making us crawl
The one and only Lord

There is nothing between us
Since we are
Together, forever

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

First of the part of the journey
The sea washes
The sand castle
In a hassle of moist touches
Shaping my future like God's touches
I feel blessed
As the empty red sunset sky watches
Looks like the faces of the dirt and the dust
Lay the waste to the degrees of the deserted fields
Cause the spring time rains on the
Heads on the bickering rabble of the lost civilizations
Where has out water gone?
Where is our respect?
Smirking MAGA kid convicted of arrogance
Pretend to be docile to bring out the silence
In your enemy
Provoke disgrace by being free
Out of the trees
Of last vicars
That make the yellow tainted spruce
Meant for the civilized truth
Darkness cannot drive out darkness
Only love can do that

Lovely seeing around
Today for me
Pure innocence
Blaming the ways
The way we parted ways
Like a lake
Flowing by it's reflecting man
With shallow understanding
Similarities stay

God hides
Behind the trailing clouds
From the seer
And from his shapely shady sepulchral cynicism
It gets to him
Like his loss
Loss of power
And loss
(Anger reigns and now no more feeling of loss)

From the point of view of a mere mortal
This seems to be a fabulism
As the soul loses its gold
As it wishes to conquer aurium itself

The seer seeks permission to become the alchemist
To bring the God in the hearts of men and women
And God in their work and their mortal heir

Oh ***** that’s me
Thy expectations make me genuflect in obsequiousness
But, as the rage of the veiled forlorn crusade rages on
(Thy devoted matured follower shouldst not fight and let me do my bidding)
He barely manages a bow as he ripostes and hides
From the eyes of vicious genocide
But as this fearsome God manages to keep his cover from being blown
Thy Androgyny comes in many shapes and forms and memories of people
To test this loyal servant

To test like the serpent of ****** love
But he pollutes the platonic connection of God and man
And he falls to the steep mistake of his below-the-belt trick
From the scientific jester
(Awing everyone with his scientific gymnastics)
To a desperate trickster
Running from the path of Fate’s judging hand

The seer refuses to accept his victory
As he loses his love for you
(Fate destroys its oldest companion)
But the present seems too narrow for emotions
Relive the past and future written on Fate’s hand
To gain respect for Fate’s future actions
(I only complain about the traumatic present rather than the abstrusely illustrious past of the world)
Who knows what time brings to immortal Godly beings

She curled up her fingers
In mine
Read my mind
My heart screamed

Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter

When I see streets of life
In the streetlights of strife
It cuts me like a knife
To see I've much more to go
Than to grow
Realizing life works in the opposite way
At end
I find myself
Growing more
Than the work done behind
In many ways
The modern lanterns
Amidst motel lintels
Seem rather mellow
At first glance
My lady seems ravishing
But the smell of her...
I'll put my life's work
Into a concordant
The frets raise the pitch
Somehow I'm fretting
With my doubts
In life's pitch

It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.

But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?

Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.

A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.

That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.

Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.

In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.

This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.

The stares of my
Right hand men
Bring me to the misnomers
That they would leave me
For leftist visions
Left for all the right reasons
My friends never abandoned
Me
They just may have joined
My enemies
Whose names I'll never forget

The earth is quenched
The idea is to get
Love drenched

Changes in the water
Seems like it's a flood of fluidic thoughts of mirrored doubt
Hate ranges from learned to raucous
The breath that engages warfare
Makes people cautious

Be a man," keep them out noisy Irishmen break the fight with Italian stilettos from the shop of the British. Irishmen you'll be done when we’re done with ya. But stay in your country.

Sleepless as I am
The nights keep me awake
Like magnets

It's not a sign board that says
"Go away"
That is a mark of a silent prayer

It is the act of giving the poor a place to stay
When your pockets are empty
And you live in a house of despair

It's not tear gas on the streets
Or hostile stares to the cops
That is a mark of a silent plea

It is the act of kindness that takes heart
When the world hates you and is against you
And takes up it's arms

A bird sings in my heart tonight
It is full of desire
The silence inside is gone
As my heart beats on

And the bird whistles a tune
Which reminds me of you
In her plaintive song
I find warmth

It's something I can sing and hum
While I stroll on a wide street in some distant town
I am at ease
Knowing the bird will keep me company

While the bird has grown tired
I want it to sing tonight
So that I can share with you
Something that's honest and true

In a place
Away from rurality
I found the urban upbringing
That left me lost in the city
In a place by the hills
I can still see the county
Like my painted past

Stopped speechless
By the haiku of
17 syllables sagaciously
Made for someone of your eloquent behavior

Do not be afraid
I tell myself every waking night
Have courage, I reassure myself
You will see the moonlight

The years went by
And the letter presented itself
Among many a person
In the community
From law to the police
He or She was known as L
Exposure to the case would result in a mistrial
Case getting handed to the Kira case
Was known to have connections with Kira
Till now it's just how it is between them
Obsequious as L was to Kira as always
There were some battles that had to be won
And I guess it was an inferno of self-destruction
For the series of Death Note animes that
Presented the book to its real form
Thank god for the bars to academically write this letter.
My resignation till the very end.

Like sprightly spring and autumn's boredom
We are two lovers, different from another
Cold as cold is, the old man holds a sneeze in
With war around, vulnerable people wash their sins

A snowflake sits on the roof, melting overhead
The sun shimmering, as cleansing as an ablution
Underneath two crystal gazers cover the grass
Warmth to warmth, ashen leaves and stalk

Thistle to thicket, the birch covers the sun, a gas giant
Her eyes encompass all as eagles perched atop everyone
Grey with age, blue, gelid like ice, looking for some silver
The mountains echo her eternal reflection that disturb the conifers

Ashes fly like lonely artist within, like the fly breaking the wires Reelin' free air
Sleeping right, instead, I'm dreaming of luck on the streets
Steal your right, instead of fighting the urge to be frantic
Turn your luck into snarky medicinal
Holiday burning up in flames, laze dazed on a hunch
Arcanine, fun being confused by the empty witnesses
Abject humiliation helps scuttle the land
Rehabilitating, titillating and shards scintillating the Tiber
Mending ways, a thing of the indefinite freewill
Unified terrorists looking at there curtains and the pails
Praying for the mail to unfurl
Sleepless like a shuttle, in an electrocuted chair in a four-by-four cell without the pills and supper
Scuttle the land and the last meal ain't free, innit

Have you heard the song
“Get off my cloud”
Who is it by

Takes a while to finally
Understand who meant to say this and why
‘Cause the first date makes you seem weird and shy
But whereas you are high
Blissfully high

On a cloud of thought
That relishes feminine company
But seeks individuality
If something is suffering
And that is the symbiotic alacrity
Of love at first sight

So please get off my cloud
I’m leaving
Goodbye

You’ll need the Stones
In your bag to get down
And for us to have another night on the town

Tea time snacks
And biscuits
Taken black and sweet

From songbirds that sang sweet
Out of the thick of trees
And their music flowed
With the melody of crackling leaves

Their voices reached out clear
Fall's branches touching the sudden drizzle
I heard them all
Before they were lost to time

When the mind is gone
An audacious soul remains
It holds up these pillars of dust
Year after year

As you gaze into my eyes
I hold you close to my heart
Caring for you deeply
Hiding the hurt inside

I don't trust myself
But my heart is yours
In this solitary moment
Do you love this man?

When you touched me
I felt the warmth
Travel through me
Like a light in a dark cave

The craters
Of moons
Hope
There is a hole
For me to look
On the other side
Of the sun
The place
Among
The stars
The blue
Place
Among yellow
And orange
The myriad of colours
The colours
Kepler's law
Seems to follow
The randomness
The blue fire
Keeps the stars
And light years
In the colorful distance
Of green of purple
Haze of tempests
Of gases and clouds
Nebulous Nebulae

The stars are dancing yet time is still
Different moments have changed us
As the gust
Gathers us in a swirl

You opened your soul and I could see
Shattered remains of what was once a heart
As the clouds break
Do you still feel the rain pouring?