Writing poems and songs of the heart
we were confident that love would find a way
but what place to accommodate?
At which place would she stay?

So many words you can say
but words are just words can you feed her stomach?
as a poet you'd fill her soul
but would you be a man to build a home?
She said: talk is cheap, your wallet is airtime,
so many words you speak, but can you put your money where your mouth is or are you weak?

We were poets, crafting words and building worlds
however to the material world it was daydreaming
We had no titles as lovers, neither bf's nor husband's
we created a system of our own
which to the world would be ridiculous
a love note has a posting fee and sending is perilous
We were poets with hat-tricks but scorned as bald men who bewitch.

So much innocence in the beginning and now the deafening chaos with happenings
a poet may swallow his sorrow
but can he eat his words? In a world where money is a god
how soon before he bows...
with no living you're at the bottom of the tower
and conspiracies enlighten you with truths that are sour
wrestled by frustration you'd wish you could teleport to super universes
where being watched by satellites isn't the union's verse

But in the world, the coarse and bitter Earth
how can a poet enliven his words?
Perhaps preach to religion, anoint light sorcery, appoint fair government and breed an awake society.

Reincarnating to further conceal the truth
being a front-runner of the age old galactic duels...
tortured when in honesty you dwell
try to be good and you will swell
Wise and cautious they tell you to go to hell

We were poets, me, myself and I I I I
the crew of I knows it all too well
multiple selves telling stories from different times
the self beyond and the corpse before
before time was time and after time has ended
the scribes golden will live on
I was a poet and I was told I live a lie
We were poets, and we were I.

In the first five minutes,

The only blades that cross your mind
belong to the fan cooling you from above.

The only love you yearn for
is that of your bed and the warmth it gives you.

The only hate that you feel
is for the sound of a ringing clock filling your waking ears.

Five blissful minutes.
When regrets and sadness do not fill your tormented mind,
when darkness does not fill your tired soul.

I sit here trying over and over again
To make my pin bleed, to hear the words sing
But nothing, my thoughts just tumble over themselves
Like laundry that will never quite be clean
Sunday night I will come back to what I left
My old life, old friends
Different now than I was then
I don’t want a disconnect for who I am and where I have been
I found brilliance and light inside myself
I hope you see it, but I doubt it
I look the same, it’s a deep place I found it.
I wonder what eyes will see
What a brilliant glow might bring.

when her eyes open wide
I could feel the ocean rushing in them
I could see my reflected happiness
I could taste the sea water as she cried
when her lips parted to reveal perfect teeth and tongue
I wish i could indulge in her
I wish i could make her feel wanted
I wish all that came out of her mouth were moans of delight and sweet nothings she'd whisper into my ear
when her heart beat fast
I could hear the thunder of a storm approaching
I could hear the blood rushing to her head and to her cheeks
I could hear her thoughts tumbling about in her head

and I sat down to think and think and wonder
why have I not fallen in love with her yet?

I believe in weakness in numbers
I don't believe in peace
I believe in blindness in responsibility
I believe that ignorance is a decadence, something only people who are poor in spirit but rich in materials can indulge in
I believe in jealousy in silence and falsehood in religion.
In
Numbers in colors
And colors in infinite white spaces.
I believe in Saudi Arabia because the letters look cool, but
I don't believe in America because the seven letters look as if they should be stamped on a fast food bag rather than across a wheel of expensive cheese.
I believe in masculinity, and feminism, and gay marriage, and people that you just want to sink into because their name is spelled s-a-f-e-t-y.

The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.