~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds

he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams  
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky

he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic  
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night

he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality  
holds everything with the love  
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his

he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life

whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain

who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil

he who is a poet -
~

All these knives in my back
         They don't even hurt anymore
   I mean, I'm sore
                 And it's intense
      But it doesn't make any sense
I must be at war
         With myself
      Tearing apart the insides of my brain
Have I gone insane?
           Why do I
Keep letting these things
              Happen to me?
       Is there a sign taped to my back
  Saying "Torture ME"?
            "Take Advantage Of ME"?
        "Love Me And Leave ME"?
    What's wrong with me?
            All this backstabbing
        Take this pen
And drag the ink into my spine
   Use the blood drops as a tattoo design
           The scars from all the knives
     Will just make it look more divine
Maybe some Angel wings
           With a sash torn apart
      and "Nobody Loves ME"
Written across the heart
            Might as well throw it all away
       Throw it all out the door
    I'm sore
          But all these knives in my back
     Don't even hurt anymore

Her breath was
   poetically zoetic,
     so ethereal ~
        she could fly