Lyrical poets, tender, soft, delicate, sensitive, ideal, intriguing, interesting, intelligent, creative, lovers, horror, artistic. Whirling galaxies, bursting words. Wanting expression beyond the usage of language by words. I wasn’t good at painting. I didn’t see a burning bush. Aurora melted. I’m entirely alien to some people, I’m a foreigner to this world, so, this earth is an alien to me, every face to me is a stranger that either smiles or frowns. Aesthetics, a stimulus abuse. Genius writes in grandeur style. Walking slum internally. I just wanted to invite beauty into my soul. Where I yearn human connection. Changing society, changing moods of poems. Moving, sweeping through, my time here is done while I am alive. A poet. A temper of the modern age. A small moment. An epoch for history. Do not follow any artist like faith in religion. Poems, therapy for moods. Words for thoughts. Despite what experience the poem is forming. Call it artistic blessings, I want to scream out loud, cause it’s all I feel inside.joy in happiness is a drug. Struggling humans. Lean upon something always outside of themselves. Falsehood. Can personal discipline result in personal freedom? Process of life is to die. Coughing into poetry, lighting a cigarette, a deep & unhealthy words spoken with the pen, my front line voice, because it’s what I feel, choking cause of the experience I’ve lead, I wanted a passionate life, smoke haze in my eyes. Death is the remedy to personal chaos. Envy the dead. They can no longer feel the pain you’re feeling. I cannot be writing endless poetry to ease anything, it doesn’t work. Dumping from tenets of the heart, straight from the start, my art is made from turmoil. I  am not promoting hardship, sorrow or even looking for sympathy. Hollow calendar days lived. Silent solidatarly within me, I tried to reach, but I feel on deaf ears, this is after I’ve been told how special I am to them, life had provided a versatile charms, leading me into smiling faces, a fear filled journey, I’m bewildered by painful hardship of learning that I’m never as meaningful as I’ve been told that I am, it is my fault for believing & seeing the good in others. I learned how to write not to create beauty or to express, allowing art to breathe, I write to compensate. Avoiding coming to grips with my eternal loneliness that is being passed from eternity to eternity. A jab to genius. Now my emotional intelligence is thinly painted by a veneer of sweet lies. It’s never ending, like the days of the week. Poetry carries immortal love, that not only the eternity of humanity tries to reach for, but lovers & those individuals in those love situations want. Poems dwelling in numberless moments. Words occupying single featureless images of mood-sensations. Reading, they stay silent throughout astonishment of self-discovery. Nothing is secret to the heart. I’m a stinking excrement desolated person. I can construct words in poems. Taken from elements of my personality. I think I’m ****. The very moon shared by everyone now darkens only over me. Without frontiers, a self without boundaries. Finding no ecstasy in divinity of words professing deities. Don’t know if I’m or the transcendental mystic traits re rare in the lives of others, but without reason, no one can purposeful handle. My breathe tore & rasped. As I am living, I cannot be taken away from the fundamental problems of life, I am not excused from it. The eccentrics will always be lonely, admired mostly from a distance, any closer, it’s normally at an arm’s distance. Maybe it's the curses of freedom. Ancestry breeding modern burdens. A scar with no name. A long time in the making. My problems to others, is like drinking warm wine. Life is brief, the pain is deep.