The first time you turned up,
Like a moonlit star behind me,
This bankrupt man felt all the love,
That was missing in this forlorn fee.
That sound of your shoes coming up,
Leaves me in this delphic hold,
Like a fire burning rough,
Like the warm coffee on the cold.
The air is lingering for your touch,
To smell your cold loving skin,
You're the math of this nerd heart,
You're the Queen of the scene.
This secret side is breathing love,
While you keep sinking ships at sea,
The way you smile is ever enough,
To keep me stuck at this daydream.
A song of young hearts and strawberry crush,
All it could ever be,
Through smiles and a hungry soul,
I' would live a lifetime on the lips I'd see.

The morning cigarette,
With a cup of igneous coffee,
On an early winter morning,
Alleviates the morning high,
Like the smoke from molten lava.

The immature ride to the vacant highway,
The zephyr gust from the near mountains,
Touches the juvenile jacket
And through the quietus of nature,
The wings inside sails away.

The green undertone of cannabis,
It's a rational sensation,
With every roll the paper silhouettes,
Like a shotgun of peace,
The buds displace on the white face.

The rejuvenating smoke calibrates,
Through the dry pipes,
And layers the ravenous soul,
Like a honey bee,
Pouring the golden sugar,
Into the barren depth of an empty bowl.

Like a centaur with tenacious wings,
Accelerating with the air,
Feeling every loop of a fresh wound,
Riding from north,
And taking the fear out,
Like a first raindrop to hit the ground.

The night is young,
With all the zombies gone,
Take me to the age of old hypnotic songs.
The wolves are dead,
And all the turtles fled,
Take me to the shadows of a cold river bed.
This blood has fought all the battles through,
The knife has stood on the cycles of truth,
For we don't know, for who do we stand,
For we are the strangers of this neurotic land.

I cannot wait for the day
when I come across a picture of you..
when I hear your name..
when I think about you..
and
feel absolutely nothing

You embellish my life, I cherish your love, trust and the time you take just to make me smile

My eyes awe at the sight of your visage. It must have taken God eight days to perfect you before his eyes.

You gave me hope when I thought I  was lost. Your voice is melody echoing the sounds of joy.

In your arms, I am in a garden of heaven basking in bliss, resting in peace but alive and indeed enjoying the aroma of elation swaying with the wind.

We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

The spark of passion ignites the heart, until it is engulfed in a conflagration of notions, as curiosity triumphs over caution.

The seed of wisdom, planted in fields of knowledge, is cultivated and refined in kingdoms of intellect to innovate speeches of freedom.

Blisters in sweaty palms, rubbing against the pen, as it drifts between the paths of future and past, where hope is met and joy is felt.

Consumed by epiphanies, the heart-beat is felt by trembling hands, squeezing the pen for inspiration, to bewilder imaginations, giving birth to new perceptions.