~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds

he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams  
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky

he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic  
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night

he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality  
holds everything with the love  
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his

he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life

whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain

who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil

he who is a poet -
~

you tore out your spine
so then I gave you mine
you wiped off my blood
said "This will do just fine"

i turned into a lump
just a large lifeless bump
you tripped over me and
then that made you jump

but, no, i'm not upset
and I bare no regret
i'd give you all my bones
i'm just glad that we met

For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....

It was a love hate relationship
Love was on his side
Hate on mine.

Poetry is the heartbeat of life;
Each poem develops us from existence to experience.
It is the answer to all forms of strife,
For every single word written
Delivers an unspoken truth by the giver.
It acts as if it is the logic behind literature
A fire driven by the desire of every creature.
To make up the pavement on the road less traveled by,
To not just gather roses but make use of them,
To realize that the fault is not in the stars, but in us,
To not be resigned in living a life of quiet desperation.

Robert Frost, Robert Herrick, William Shakespeare and Henry David Thoreau,
They are noble men.
They are poets.
They have understood that poetry sustains life.

Poetry is a noble pursuit.
It is needed to sustain life
Thus it develops us to a greater form of humans
We are slaves to its will
For we merely not write poetry;
For it is poetry which writes us.

An Ode To Poets,
To honour them for their noble deeds.
An Ode To Poets,
To live by their noble deeds.

The taint of sensuality.
The desire for renewed existence.
The taint of ignorance.

I am the embodiment of your sins.

I am your greed, gold in color and always asking for more.

I am your lust, swirling in amber with a slip of my tongue upon your flesh.

I am your wrath, rolling in a fit of redden anger.

I am your sloth, lounged in white, sleeping in between your sheets.

I am your gluttony, always craving more, more, more...

I am your pride, held purple in my state of royalty.

And

I am your envy, green with what never can fully be mine.

I am your sins. Full bodied. Anointed.

deadly sins,
              written on your
              dazed mind and
              *scarred body.