We are supposed beings
In  thought
Made of infinity,
Passed by momentum,
Mediocre wonders
In a marvelous prison
Whose door
Leads to
A universal soul!

What I write is an expression,
One that I can never just tell
You.

What I say I couldn't write because
I never meant to hurt you.

That's the poem
And you,
The difference
Is reading one
From the other.

To whom one is loved,
To be loved delivers
In return
A natural state of what
It means to be human.
And all along the river
As the waters whisper moments
In a running stream
That makes what bearable
Pre existing emptied
Soul poured into the flesh
And left to settle into the dust
What one can manage,
Only the love returned fills
The soul,
And family, friends ,
And lovers begin the end
In a flash so bright
It blinds a star
And what is born is life,
Each a tiny universe unto
The self,
A portrait of a person
For better or otherwise
Solidifies the magnification,
Love is Spirit,
And I am magnificent,
Because I know I will
Die of life,
And I lived,
All that one can do....

If the Little Dictator was alive?
He would admire Trump and his squad.
Conquer and divide, would be his motto.

Gather your group together through intimidating factors.
Support the violence of one and blame the other.

If ****** was living.
Whew! Just like now, we would be in a heap of trouble.
Except in America vicious hate always get kicked down.

Even if ****** was living.

There are no words
Yet a poem is birthing itself
Out of the kiss of your lips
That burned
The moon's faded light,

Yes my pen is on fire,

It burns after the touch
Of the prophets words
And the fruitions of our bodies;
We bring about the end times
As we long for the next encounter.

Yes, tonight the poem is born,

Born in the eye of the storm
A thunderous peace that
Falls as I seed you eternal
Flame and cool the desires
That dissolves the liquid drops,
Rain down on me!!

Yes, tonight my pen is on fire,

And it burns,
The hole in my existence
When I am not naked
Next to you and the day
Is born into us
As first light ignites your silhouette into the scape of
The bedroom, and the fire begins
Again, again,

My pen is on fire,
Too hot to hold,
So I drop it here at the
End of this poem
And burn alive in the
Passionate touch
Of our bodies engulfed,
We burn the liquid flames!

......the paradox was not a mysterious precious singular reason,
     As he breathed life into
His own lungs,
For daily he seemed to live like this,
The wound he wore on his chest
Like a reaper of life,
    A blood wound so thirsty
Its vampiric torture on those
Closest was not life but an
Embellished form of whimpers
Not some courageous
Yell to justified glory,
    It frustration was at
A poem or some form of
A form that gave it's bitter
   Deliverance grace
So that all might hear
Such a didsain with
Fanciful words more for word's
Sake, the ears silken flattery,
    The mundane use of glorified
Flutter,
  He wrote the weak
And a theasurus well thought
Made it strong,
    As it was read,
The mundane echoed
From an empty seat,
An empty word
From a cup once full.....