What are you cooking?

      "Cyanide"

         Why?

Don't want to trouble people
with my ludicrous poetry.

Like a cherry branch in the wind, you
dancing to the iridescent tune
of whichever direction it moves

O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world?
No!
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world.
What woe!
And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too!
And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:

That it is not man's devices that light the darkness,
but the sun's brightness…

Genius is forged by passion
It is this which never dies:
Transcendental elation.

So long as one creation
is moved to dance mesmerized,
genius is forged by passion.

Though stone hearts lack expression,
postmoderns aching to try
transcendental elation

Keeping "plebes" from their "mansions."
Speak this opaque truth as lies:
Genius is forged by passion.

The hive mind *******,
at shared expense they deny
transcendental elation.

Our yearning adoration
causes heaven's voice to cry,
Genius is forged by passion!
Transcendental elation.

Dehydrated by the tears, and constricted by the fears.
Thinking of the years that disappeared out of your eyes and your ears. In almost an instant.  
              
The vows,
    
       The commitment,

Shattered like glass on stone, watching you linger your eyes to another
While I’m home alone trying to not smother you
                
                 The hope,

I have left Is a single strand, even after the pictures of you and him make my legs unable to stand
With furrowed eyebrows, I browse to find the heart you took from me.