We write words like a king has his lunch
Like a fiend buys drugs, because he buys a bunch
We take pride in our craft , like a boxer his punch
If we had a dime for each word that we wrote
And one for each thought we thought thought would provoke
We'd be so **** rich that none would'nt know it
And much more people would spend time among poets

I knew a kid that got shot over a couple lines of paint
Pill popping, loud talking type and mom thought he was a saint
I knew a kid that had his face changed
When his fate changed and his banging banged em up
Wasn't the type to run but he ran when they started running up
I knew a kid who got caught with too much although he did too much way too often
And the day came he over did it
I still wonder if he had enough
Kids with lives so broke they find a break in smoke and pills
But still Find time
For daily fights
And nightly thrills

One day Dostoyevsk talked to me in dreams.
In my early teens, way before the time of my life.
A stripling adolescent,
misspent juvenile youth.
I sat on the roof of the bakery,
reading The Devils.
Over and over again,
until it started to make sense.

Before Kierkegaard,
I found life hard,
no meaning, no dreams came true.
Quantified in my mind,
applied to doctrinal differences I found within,
authenticating the delusions and disorientation of this absurd world we live in.

It all Sartre(d) with being and nothingness.
A cultural movement brought to public providence.
Ominously before I was born,
but I was still torn between being,
and nothingness,
like everyone else.
Distinguishing secular humanism,
rejecting pseudoscience,
apparently.

Now the Blade run’s across my skin.
Married to the cause,
with the force like Harrison,
can you appreciate the retort of
my existential crisis.
We could get lost in the Matrix,
in the “necessary absurdity of the human condition and the horror war”
Like Kubrick.

There’s beautiful new tricks I use to wake up each morning and go about my personal piece of silver screen.

Sometimes the night is so quiet
feels like it's demanding us
to disperse into its chasm
like the seeds of silence
and caressed by the darkness
A perfect zilch to be within
leaving me with a kind of abscess that only a deadly cold could favour me such
and me lying and enduring the abyss.....

waxing, planetary
odd moonlight—

the faces are whetted to diamonds.
the paralytic shadow begins
to twitch;

benign light froths to full afternoon,
this sedentary creature in between teeth,
a clear consonant of dull air.

thereby gleaming, tapered to
a nightingale's song;
i take my place amongst the elements
of night: as if to say a new portrait in mausoleum crossed by grass and aureole

the laughter shattering its dull one—
a lurid memory, all to itself amongst
kindred of parks.

“I write because there is a fire inside me that only ink can put out.”

by your voice
I dream of your green eyed wisdom
floating metaphorically  
upon clouds and wind
your songs must be
there in blood spilled ink
I get high recalling
thy blushing cheeks
full lips quoting Whitman to me
softer on a hill than Autumn's calm
I fly high when
wings and turtle doves
by your voice breathe alive:


wildlife into life
you create
imagination so surreal,
your essence calms the storms,
growling rains,
beats back thunders and winds
in quickening heartbeats:
with green eyes
glance I remember there
on a page to
be treasured by I,
you and your dancing
so beautiful,
In trance I grasp

love. dance to your
songs

It’s 5:00 am. I feel cold and I am here lying on a stranger’s bed.
No scratch that lying on a “new friend’s” bed. Contemplating on how poorly I have made my decisions for the past 2 hours yet never regretting anything.
I do not know what has gotten into me. My body feels like it is in a state of euphoria, all my senses are alive.
I am as high as ****, too high to even care that I am too high.
I love where I am. I love the liberty, the spontaneity, I love everything.
I wish I could have done this during my younger years. I wish I could have done this before with the same state of mind as what I have now.
And now I am just too old to give a **** on anything that should matter. I grew tired of trying to prove to myself and to others that I maybe can stand alone.
I have needs, everybody has needs that should be addressed and I have found a rather old way to address mine. And it doesn’t matter what others say.
Because in the end, no one will give a **** about your life, anyway.

~~
In the Stars Fair
Sometimes it's falling
Lost in the dark

My love,
Mingles with millions of stars
Same but hundreds of thousands of light in the line

Who are given
What I have found
But all I have taken

Among thee who am I
Even where are you
Or maybe known to me as the North Star

Lost within everyone
Beyond the known path
Apart from the light

Footprints fade out in the same path
Still spots on the shadows
Even yet it's called the galaxy
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

When I dream this desert turns green, blooms
clouds race where mountain lions loom
ash gray, the cool of blue rain comes
a redolent wind of desert sea
rushing waves, sand blown
sculpted saguaro forests
pale flowered yellow
drinking every drop
now this eve we drink
now before another dawn
of the mad thirsty sun

My lips are cracked leather
lizard dry, my breath melts into mirage
beetles emerge from dark caves
in flashes of iridescence, crawling
their tiny tracks, surreal sand paintings
art for cactus wren, hunting

Here, beyond yet another
sparkling diamond mound
lies a wild sea of the sailing ships, I've found