He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.


He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.


He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.


He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.


This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.


This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.


Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?


Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.


Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.


Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

I used to be
the heart on my sleeve
all or nothing
this is me
kinda girl
but too many times
have people like you
carelessly brushed against it
let it fall
and leave it behind
NOT THIS TIME
NOT ANYMORE!!
ive picked myself up
off of your floor
holding my head high
ive tucked that last piece of me away
hidden in a hollow only I know how to find
locked up tight
away from light
painted this smile upon my face in the art of war
gently I glide
smiling
laughing
selfishly flaunting
how good it feels
to feel nothing

there really is such a fine line between love and hate
as I sit here
im hating you
the tears that are leaking
have intentions of loving you still
my heart pounds
my insides swirl
theres a boxing ring somewhere in between
where the heart and brain duke it out
I watch from the stands
eagerly awaiting a victor
yet there is none
if this where chess
id be at a stalemate
........
its been three months
and im still here
awaiting a victor
of mind or heart
ill never forgive you
ill never stop loving you
this cycle is vicious
and wearing me thin

"are you depressed?"

i wipe my eyes of
slow
grogginess,
i pull myself struggling out of a
fluctuating dream state to rest
temporarily in reality.

"what?"

"oh well... wanting to sleep through everything, and never
wanting to do anything is one of the
leading causes of
depression"

thanks i really had no ******* idea

"well i had it all through middle school
so i wouldn't be surprised."

"maybe you should talk to someone about it,"

i packed my things
angrily
loud, in her
echoing teal classroom,
and left quickly.

*she really has no ******* clue

you delve deep into the naked sunset,
only to emerge with the small
dying embers
of the sun
in the weak scarlet of your
palms.

August still catches in my head like that Manhattan melody
        when he was my little vial of Novocaine.
        when the moon showed her face and we slept on my floor
and our knees and hips and
shoulders—all the hinges of our bodies—washed with
a twilight of mauve and Bordeaux.
And one night he painted me with
two rows of clenched teeth—dipping in and out of white pools of Selene.
I have a bed now that he has left
        with sheets that billow on the right side,
        with real blankets that aren't hospital blankets.
And he is my little vial of Novocaine
that took a train to states away. And the miles
between have left me with a weight in my chest that I'm sure fell from
his suitcase. I've got
        bones made of buildings,
        and a metropolitan heart,
        and a steady smile
knowing this same moon hangs over him and that borough.

We lived in an abattoir
On the edge of our abandoned world
Come darkness we would draw
Into cages made of pearl

We swam in blood of beasts
And of each other we ate
Each night, a divine feast
Your heart upon my plate

Though we lived in death
Our appetite would claw
For the other's fervid breath
Within the abattoir