Pretty bird
you sound so pretty when you cry
Do you cry 'cause. . .
You lack the wings beside you,
you can't self-express yourself,
you feel nothingness in your precious heart?

Pretty bird
please don't die
spread your light and love to this unnatural universe,
we need your life. . .
I worry, why're you so pretty yet can't fly
Please don't be defiant to yourself

Pretty, pretty bird
Please don't die
for you sound so pretty when you cry
you cry 'cause I plainly paint my words in recreation of our wilderness,
'cause together we flock in time
don't be shy, for I'll be your wings
that neither the rain, nor the heavy cold winds will stop you & I.

How about
We play pretend
You pretend that I'm not there
And I'll pretend you're all I own
You Pretend that I'm just a friend
And I'll Pretend you're everything else
We'll pretend that I wake up to see your eyes
And I'll pretend that I sleep in your arms
Let's pretend that you're you
And I'll pretend I'm me
Playing pretend with you

I am a soul
with a formidable character
with a haven-piercing eye
a heart made of a *** of gold

I am a king
with everlasting authenticity
with a roar of a lion
fearless, like a peacock's feathers

I am audible
with an aroma filled with audacity
strange oke living in simplicity
with a mind travelling in Paradise city

I am a child of God
born of the Holy Spirit
in thine I bow in obedience
thus attitude of gratitude is lived.

smell the serenity of his soul
his, that longs endearity
that disfigures infidelity
that mistrusts commonality
his soul is more that it meets the eye
speeded up like a love train when it sees you
you, where it gives the needed attention
the love and affection
where the fibre of thine heart is transfigured
off to your hiding place
where the fire will be made
through the transmigration to a beautiful soul.

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

Am I wrong?
to still feel the first sight infatuation
to write you sweet serenades or poems
to say I love you?

Am I wrong?
to show you off through paper & pen
to entitle my heart to you
to wanting to feel you?

Am I wrong?
to needing you
to wanting you
to loving you?