let there be no bitterness in my heart
no regrets, no judgement that berates
let me walk on my path,
let there be birds that shall sing
let there be joy in my heart
and may that be shared by those that I
might meet on my way

let me not value, nor pass sentence
let me not frown, or smirk
let me have my path that is radiant
with no system, nor ownership
free of labels
and may I walk that way, my own
let there be the sun, the moon and space
all things that exist, in their nature
and let those Mighty Here and Above
know I will not follow nor will be followed
and if it need be, may others be pleased
when they shall see me pass by

Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.

The butterfly and the bee pollinate,
the unknown flower of memory,
then fly off through the gaps,
of the spiders web into the blackness,
of the vast midnight of the mind.

Words shower down into a torrent,
that falls upon a bewildered numbness,
remaining incoherent, they flow on,
into the stream where perhaps a child,
will gather them and weave them into a melody.

Slowly the poet slides away, unnoticed,
into the mist of time and unconsciousness,
Hidden deep within the flower bed of memory.
an unknown flower not yet pollinated,
still waiting in the realm of the midnight darkness.

In the childs mind the sun shines brightly,
as she brushes the words she has taken,
from the stream of life, with the days light,
The poet breathes, renewed and alive.
so it is in the universal garden of life.

A grip as firm as a pretty girl's stare,
he will demolish he will take care

He picks his victim, tells her to go,
she doesn't mind, the guy, left behind.

Starting to doubt, why even stay kind,
it doesn't help, it doesn't bother.
She doesn't want me, why would another.

Neglect a message, sit at home, call
something off, carelessly roam.

He only gets stronger, whatever you do
whatever you try, it will not work,
he will make you die.

Once I was happy, once I had hope,
once I told everyone with what I did cope,
I wish to not care, but I feel loneliness' stare
and gripping me tight, not enough strenght,
not enough muscles,
too weak to fight.

Loneliness,
I adore you,
I couldn't care less,
when I am alone,
I am a mess,
and useless too,
heartless as stone
I reclimb the throne

I am not lonely, I am
loneliness.

For him, love
was a river of
blue veins running
like rivers under
her skin