Where all a collection
              of dead stars.
This is why we burn
so brightly for a finite time.

And when we burn out
             where just faded
reminisce of universal reflection.


Never let your shimmer fade,
               because we are only
                                    moments

Fading within a lifetime
                of memories
                 that like stars dim.

What is life without ice cream,
          for with every spoonful
troubles melt, tears dry up.

No matter your tastes,
                ice-cream is life's
answer to every problem.

And all you need is a spoon
                                  or a fork,
some are freaky like that.

The fever of doctrine is waning,
          but the symptoms of its gathering sweats
are making others dangerous
                              to the furthermost sanity of all.

For what is sanity, if not the realization
             that an illness will fight to survive,
even if it kills the host
                                    who has been cured.

Luminosity is the partner of obscurity.
                           As I watch each sunset
                           its as though tears are sinking
                           beneath a heart beat of existence.

But then the evanescence gives ways to
                           wonders of the penetrate
                          a void less canvass painting
                          eternity with random brushes.

Each has its beauty to bestow on the sights
                          of particles drifting coalescing
                          momentarily to envision the
                          changing styles of eternity.

Opportunity should be leashed,
             make it respect you.
Never let it
                    *** up your leg.
As opportunity only respects
          those who will walk it.

And then you can let it run free,
as it'll always come back
                                 time after time.

Always take that breath and
expel every syllable that's
                                 clinging.
Throw it out there, tell the
                                         world
what you thinking.

And don't let anyone
                   tell you otherwise.
Because a voice is beautiful,
                 because we all
                                       worth
what we say, don't let others take it away.

Every footstep is a
                metaphor
of our journey.

Until our last breath
           everyone a line
of creation.

We're sentences always
                    adapting to
our changing storyline.

Cleaving droplets from a composition
of stagnating hues, decomposing but
still useful as canvas coloured smiles.
Death brings emotion to faces void.

Everyone that is used are unique in the
smearing of what flowed like a petrifying
eye liner. Now broken vessels that divorce
emotion from there being unto another.

There are no smiles here,
           just a covering of falseness.
For without the colour of others
       he laughs at the bleached expression.

"Who needs smiles,
                        when you can paint others on brighter"

Simplicity is telling someone
                something that they
would only get from reading
              my words.

                    Attuned delicately
within a shroud of metaphors.
             Coalescing neatly in a
sentence
of understanding that they see before them.

The reason I write is to expand upon every aspect
that collects in the drainage point of unchecked
emotions. Its an avenue where I expand all my
sentiments, my thoughts I need to readily preoccupy.

Even though I'd never admit it, sometimes I need
to create words of reflections that have to be freed.
These are the opposite of what I see beyond my pools
of thought coalescing, when writing there are no rules.

We can all hide behind our manifestations, never showing
ourselves. For the reader is always seeking what is unknowing.
I write on blank slates for others to guess what is imagination
and the reality of my syllables all melting in cognitive dictation.

"I have many reasons to spill my introspections on
            every eye to see. For what is a word if not a dawn
in the sunrise of others eyes. I ink the words before there gone"

The king is dead he never rose
from his resting place, chose
instead to be the embodiment
of a false fable writing the copyist.

Within a cave of delusions that kept
the image of false motives hidden.
An off spring of a method not unkempt.
this version the kept reasoning now forbidden.

Delusions of two reflections not seeing that
one is not a king but a falsehood sat on divided chat.
Neither were a failing, but reflections of a belief
that were conflicting upon a tree with a twinned leaf.

But when one must fall, both will simultaneously
greet the earth with a momentary spontaneously.
Always will one be ahead of the other claiming divine
leading, and others follow this moment of design.

But every king has a past that is woven in misbelief,
for all false kings can bring is an unethical belief
that they are the true monarch of a world run by many
where brothers & sisters there just spinning a single  penny

We were on an occupation of
            relative discerning,
crossing every bridge of
                            relative conviction.

But the rights of a singular formation,
               doesn't hold the morality of
a solitary standing.
            The glass was half full on our side,
                                                  never spilling.


But on that side every motion,
                    sided with the tears
   that eroded the path before us.
   Could our convulsions be stained.

But we were stead fast,
                 walking forth.
             Here comes our shame,
             here is the shame of our noose
             of ignorance.

That a half empty cup of emptiness
had more meaning than ours
                                              half filled.
But we walked further than out tether.
  And a cup half full, pulled a bridge down
                         with a fortitude of conviction.

"Just because a cup seems mostly full,
         the tears of a mostly half empty vessel
  can hold more weight and pull any bridge
                  of wrongness down in simple volume"

The frail engines of the past
                 still linger
on the fossil fuel of indoctrinated
perceptions of love,
that were a wonder of the old world.

But found to be filled though
                      ignorant filters of the present.
Prudish, falseness of male masculinity.

Were all engines of unfamiliar injections.
                   That fuel, the love bound within
the pistons of our revving heart.  
                   Fossilised yet each of us
                            still seem to be able
to ignite the fuel of others yearning.

The old engines are redundant,
                     new ages of passion
       fuelled by the spark that a generation
accepting that the fuel of love isn't singular.
                But that we ignite off any source
                that'll help our heart run in unison.

Actively seeking knowledge,
that may have different answers.
Holding on to a morality of self
instead of fearing that which others
expect upon there version, tainted.
Some cant see beyond there own confusion
trying to sullen me, because I'm not conformed.

Smiling in this moment of love,
pollen brings alleges.
A sneeze pressures
her secret to fall
with a clang.

Vibrating *******, blushful innocence revoked.

I have a problem with the:
    
              Them against us
    Us against them.

This against That
                       That against This.

Why does everything have to be split between
the avenues of disagreement.
Don't get me wrong,  to discuss is evident
for what is life without question.
       But some ideas are just
    illogical
              cognitive
delusions of others thoughts are a height
above others similar reflections.
But only see there view
                                  not the many refracting.

"I ask you this, what is life if we cant disagree
                   but see the reflections of others thoughts"

Were full of thought,
          but empty of
                 understanding.

A singular drop of knowledge
          can be lost within
a puddle of unknowns.

But a single droplet
            can still make ripples
that show us that waves

don't have to be big, to understand everything.

Lying here, with plenty
                   of time to think,

Do I go for the bottle?
less
      work, but feels fake.

That place where we are close,
  Natures giver of love and warmth
                 best medicine for me to drink?

Bottle
Pro: I can be lazy, just suckle that fool all day.
I'm held by mummy & daddy.
Cons: No closeness even though held,
the bottle is no substitute for skin on skin contact.

Milk giver
Pro: I feel mummies heart beat, closeness of her
giving, us time as a wonder of to sleep.
Con: trying to grip is like holding a pickle slippery
and when you think you have it slips again?
                                                               "What's a pickle"
Trying not to be suffocated by those things,
                              A kid has to breath....

I contemplate these thoughts, I chat to my friend he was born
5 minutes before me, thinks age brings wisdom.

"for me its not the bottle I need my mommy next to me"

"don't you miss you daddies smile"

"what's a daddy? I haven't seen one of those"

I cry as who wouldn't want to hold us.

I ponder my thoughts, bleary vision, but I hear my parents
talking. And decide that I like the bottle as it brings me closer
to mummy and daddy. Even though feeling mummies
warmth, and being serenaded by her heart beat.
I love the feeling of hearing and feeling there voices
holding my closely.
And I tried to feed off daddies milk givers,
his were hairy,  tickling my nose,
                                          I'm not trying that again.

The stars are better off
                    without us.
Not mourning our final
                   screams
              in to censorship.

We voice confusion from
             our snow globe,
            ready for it to be forsaken .
Shattering the existence
            that was never meant to birth.

"Silence is wondrous when we never hear it coming"

When we fall and no other attempts
                                       to help us up.
But a enemy pulls us from our lowest point.

We know that friends are just an illusion
                 and enemies show there true colours
                                         through our hardships. enemies

Being the ones who are our hardest critics,
                                     but the first to clench
                               there fist is true meaning.

Within the first moments,
             beaten upon to show pain.


Woeful of an innocence made to
             cry for the pleasure of others.

A parent holds after others hands
           ****** there innocence of birth.
Fingerprints imprint beyond paternal instincts .


A mothers third party hands clench,
                   where others have already
                   took maternal moments away.

A piñata of so much meaning, now spoilt
                   in a mothers hands. She cries as
                   others hold the candy of innocence.

The cord of reality severed,
                 screams of desperation.

Sobbing that every breath isn't
              within a mothers existence.

Now breathing the cruel air
         of actuality. Comforted but alone.

Daylight is over rated,
showing the weakness
         that caresses  the darkness.

Where strength is whoever walks,
                      when the sunrise knifes
                      at every vein of existence.

Haemorrhaging the beauty of silence,
                  daylight is the noise of an
                  awaking purgatory on life.

The sun still burns through clouded renditions,
                      eyes black with the tainted sorrows
                                                   of a darkened days.

Still burned beyond the visual acuity
       of subconscious glaring. But we still collect pictures
       in the ashes of  clouds. Tombs of  imaginations folly.

Soiled nappies
        filled with discontent.

That the world is
     always uncomfortable
     and full of discomfort..

Were all an inch away from the
                     others verge of  madness.

But ours is just a little more different,
                    so we say were a little more normal.

When in reality were more
                                      ****** up than them.

She's a library of consciousness,
           putting books of recollection
           within the shelf's of anthology.

Some times she's looking for her
             favourite memories only to
             find they are deleted volumes.

Regrettably some editions are discontinued
                   because revised version are better
                                    than there predecessors.

The devil rides the tomb of our thoughts,
       only to hold us back from intentions

       that cleave even at his morality.



"We are always much darker that the devil
               on our shoulder, he holds us back,

Breed for only
         choirs of pain.

Crimson silence pays out.

Moist in there giving,
            but woeful are the
dewdrops that evaporate
                      clinging to verses.


Momentary metaphors dispersing
          before others acknowledgment
of there potential.
                    
But still clinging to dawns  perception.
                Reading  between every analogy,
That all that dehydrates can sew new seeds.

When I venture eyes slightly glazed
           at that ****** light permeating
my room like an unwanted guest
                               knocking at my door
at 8:00am in the shock treatment of my
                                    
                                               awakening.


But still versing hymens of my woeful
                                   acknowledgement.
Covering ones self like a concrete tomb.
                  covering light with plasters
of inconvenience, hiding the cuts of awakening.

I will slumber, entombed beneath shallow blankets.
                          Never arising
                           to the wants of another day.
Clinging to the beauty of darkness,
                               I awaken to the reality of another day.

When I venture beyond the
            schemes of a
            hundredth breathes.

As each one that starts a year,
           culminating in the expiration
            of woeful expirations.

No one expects within there life time
             of exhales, that each one
will permeate counts lingers  beyond 100.

Collecting exaltations, that when
            timed, they'll never pass the
  hundredth moment of our lifetime.

She would drain the stars dry,
        corpses of lifeless mounds
hollow and drifting.

Hunger is a ravenousness
              unfulfilled desire.
Never attained but still stars scream.

Expired in the darkness,
               cadavers hang silently.
The stars are glistening,
         A sky of fireflies dying.

I want to reboot my life,
           to clear the files of
regret,
          sorrow,
                    wrong decisions.

My mainframe of thought
            still has echoes
of deleted files.
Nothing is really rebooted.

I'll keep deleting those files
        till the time there just
                               shadows,
            as echoes can be heard
      but obscurity eventually fades.

Dewdrop diamonds glisten,
                  beauty in a morning,
but allure dissolves,
                                after time.

All that is left is evaporated
      memories,
                 of the morning
                                 of our life.

We leave etches, imprints within those
                 when we relinquish
                                 our mortal form.
For every breath we took
               is still carried on the wind.
       Every word is still voiced,
                 echoes of our time
                 brush against your face.

But even though we are just a breeze
                                            in the wind.
We can still touch upon
                     that imprint.
Showing that even though
         were no longer here.
         you breath in our memory.

The waves were like vipers,
picking of weary sailors from
                                           the deck.

Plucking them with fangs of stinging
waves, taking those unsuspecting
                                            from the deck.

Drowning them in the sorrows
                   that suffocated them beneath the
        planks they were washed upon.

So many swords were never lifted
                             but fell submerged silently.
Falling beneath the honour that sank before them.

But like creeping ivy, they were woven upon.
                    Seaweed forests clasping upon those
weary travellers that sang into slumbering bereavement.

Still the forests that fed on the rainfall of what
             decayed falling statically from above,
                              nourishment in silent surrendering's.

Eclipses of what was draped,
             woven on me like entombed
shadows that never feared luminosity.
          
Within I was a contradiction
                   that was rising on
                        every morning.


But I was nothing,
                   but what was a raven on white.

Shallow depths sink  
             wayward thoughts.
But the corpses of butterflies
       still collapse inwards,
as the reaper collects dead imprecations.

                      Burying them deeper
                       so never to be exhumed.

Delusions of reproduced
                         legitimacy.
Never omitted,
                          but spoken.

Some can never respect
        there own misconceptions.
        expecting others
                           to drown silently.

Omission is a flower tainted
                but still blossoming.
The scent not as
                       fresh as legitimacy.

Not wilting though due to
               compromised nourishment.
        making up for flawed seeding's.

Reflections once blossomed
                   but ideals were cadavers
                                             entombed
in thorns of serrated ethics
                                     now void less.

But streams had dried up
                              leaving echoes
                of rouge images
showing like imperfections emaciated.

Even though a collection once
                           blossoming now vacant.
                   Nothing fades but leaves
seeds of contemplation, to grow again.

I called on the echoes of my loneliness,
            but you never answered my sorrowing
            verses that fell like razor wire tears.

Lacerating within the repetition as each one
                   was a dissection of my emotions.
                    You never collected in fear of being wounded.

But you were the one that cut me profoundly,
        words were your weapon.Versed in  broken glass
        shards, syllables are blades and my tears crimson.

Tying worries into
             circles of string.

Loops of eternity,
        coalescing worries.

For which I hung upon,
           every knot was silent.

We are all bound
       by the stings of fate,
       interlaced between actions.

Each one tying us
      to another's knot.
Interlaced within times connection,

We can pull upon every
        lace, but in the end
        we all connect to another.

We tied
      sweet nothings
around our wrists.

And fell,
        in life we were
equal together.

In death we were
                 a strand
connected eternally.