I always assumed
that you could determine the will of a writer
by the quantity of ink
remaining in his pen.
Yet, I have never fathomed
what makes him brilliant.
Is it his degree of education,
his inequivalent repertoire of vocabulary to the common man,
or just born gift bestowed by heaven?
Later, I came to the lucid realization
that brilliance is conceptualized
at the hand of the inner mechanics
and harmonious complexities
that portrait the writer's
heart, mind, and soul.
From which, shape his message
by the process he takes to arrange,
construct, and execute
his philosophies and mental apparatuses
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a writer.
-n.s.

It's all psychological,
the system is the sum of all the illogical
factors that make the parts
of the people that have lost their hearts

in the process.
Nauseous nonsense.
Not cautious!
Weak to the will of the head of the snake,
it's predominant.
The word of the serpent has become prominent.

LOST

to the fight of a god made real.
The words don't deserve to see our knees kneel.

It's ridiculous.

This is society in general.
All it is, is just mental peril.
In this place we call home,
we never lived free,
we reside under the dome.
-n.s.

'Twas this night's hour, my heart did soar.
The kiss of her lips made my soul roar.
And with that kiss, my soul did shout,
"She's the one! She's the one! Never have doubt!"

'Twas this night's hour and I viewed her soul
through her big, green eyes, my heart she stole.
With her beautiful lips and her luscious, soft skin
how I knew she felt the same was through a sweet, dorky grin.

'Twas this night's hour, I was filled with joy!
Like a child at Yule with a brand new toy!
Her being the child and the toy being my heart
I trust she won't misuse or tear it apart.

'Twas this night's hour, this girl became mine.
My love, my babe and my year-long  valentine!
Now that the hour is gone, it's time to rest,
with her by my side and her head on my chest.
-n.s.

I don't know what it means to be normal.
Does society control what is really formal?
Combed hair, and church goers,
anything less, is your bar lower?
I want piercings and tattoos,
I like punk music and rap too.
Ripped jeans and Vans Shoes,
is my style still taboo?
Look at the kids being themselves.
When society locks them in a jail cell and says look,
"You are abnormal and your weird,
if this world was a painting, you're a smear. You're not one of us, so we'll look at you funny and then maybe you'll become one of us one day, sunny!"
But no, it can't be like this
since when do we take what's not ours and throw it in the abyss?
I'm confident in who I am
and I'm proud of who I've become.
I'd rather be me everyday, over what you prefer the outcome.
-n.s.

I don't wish for my poems to be explained by teachers,
scholars, or philosophers.
I do not wish to have them broken down to find meaning within
or for them to be celebrated by others
because of who I may become.
I wish that my poems speak to your soul, heart and mind.
I want my words to resinate with your spirit.
More than any other words could.
Let the poems, speak to your soul.
Let it speak its own message.
I wish for this to be the examination of my work.
- n.s.