Your lips.. are the Elixir to my immortality.
Your heart... is the foundation.. of this revolution... in love...
My seed, will bring the birth of a bigger, better legacy...
My predecessor. You're prince or princess. The dawn of a new creation.. a new beginning. A new chapter.
By first light, Today, life will emerge to a new dawn and existence as we know it will be remade.
Your courage and bravery will provide and protect this birth of creation. and together, we shall bring something incredible into this universe... it is called... a child, and it is our child.

What is a happy ending but a conclusion to every fairy tale ever told... to block out reality.. to keep us hidden from a dark truth... What is a prince but a disguised man, posing as the perfect thing... a princess as the ideal lady for a father, a queen... the ideal woman for a man who seeks a wife...  What is a fairy tale but the ideal fantasy for what we seek for in an escape from reality... why must it be an escape or just a fantasy... what has reality keeping our dreams from being out of reach... nothing... 'Work' they say.. how must one work for 'love'... a piece of desire, pleasure and an unidentifiable, undefinable kindness.. why must 'work' be the excuse we  use to gain a glimpse of 'happiness' why can't anyone just simply be... 'happy'..

because lies and deceptions are what this terrible reality holds for us all.

Her: What will you do next?...
Him: Oh, it's always the same ****** question,every time...
Her: What do you mean?
Him: Everybody's the same really... when you think about it... it's not about what your doing or going to do..... it's how you prepare..
Her: Prepare for what?.. exactly?
Him: Prepare weather or not to make the next decision on this journey you would call, life.. or leave it to fate.. if you believe in that sort of thing that is...
Her: And do you believe in 'fate'?...
Him: I suppose we are about to find out.

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines