And now I am in the floating world;
I dare not say where my talons reach
On a wasted bar in an
upscale town
Or an alley where Fatima found her treasures
In the long lost desert of the warm hole,
Warm hole, I guess the intoxicated parental hugs and childish glee,  
I look up from the clouds,
To the endless possibility of the diamonds
That often singers wrote about.

I say, dear sir,
Who am I to stare at her face,
Who am I, to debate regarding astronomy
To appreciate what the clouds offer,
To gaze at endlessness.

To look down at earthy abrasion,
To scratch a letter about the sky,
I am no Euclid,
I cannot calculate severity.

That begs me to differ
That,  people plainly cannot deduct  
signals about lost thought,
The algorithm of pain.

Poetry begs of loneliness despair and the will
to obligate any will to look at the sky
As only diamonds of beauty,
I too am no exception;
Alas, to bring a clown to an opera
Is no different than associating pain with love.

/I too am in love/
/I too was in love/

And certain beings of certain genders
Makes you feel whole,
The last ingredient of banana bread,
the parmesan of a Michelin plaza

And yet towards the end,
all the love come to a halt,
and no ingredient can complete it whatsoever.

Heraldry: would you rather be the next karate kid?
What is the conclusion of your armory,
to be in love
as always is a momentary pause in the general affairs of society?

Have you related to a succulent plant?
Well, I cannot,
I am but a group of the ant farm,
boring away in close proximities of career-oriented blabber,
Naysay, it is not culture nor an obligation,

I simply do not have the courage to fly.

I lack in art and imagination,
As a poet, it is quite a blasphemy,
But dear Lord would you call a layman a poet
If he dare not risk beyond boundaries of nomenclature
You call her a fraud,
when she dare write and not live
when she dare speak and not do,
She is not a poet, good sir,
She is a prisoner of propaganda.

I do not remember days and years,
but it was once in July,
The sun was setting,
And calling over to take the place in the night sky,

Needless to say, it was an abrupt end with no closure,
but she took it out on the sun
Whilst her muse ended things at the barrel of the gun.

Truth be told,
I am sick of ballads,
I am sick of subway seats
I am sick of occupancy.

I dare you to sing a rhyme
Which you sang with him behind
And hush your tears,
because you bestowed the music in his grave.

I am angry,
I did the same!

Well, enough of angel tears,
I take back my sun,
I take back the sky,
I take back the dreams!

I am ready to see sunsets.