the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised

and so the job,
our work,
begins

This is indeed a poem
But...
It's actually all about me
A selfish sort of plea
I want to be loved
And no offence my friend
Not just by your invisible
Being from above

Rather the fleshly kind
Two sets of bedroom eyes
Two hearts intertwined
Two souls living
A beautiful rhyme
In and out of time

Then again, I'll accept
Any kind of love
My empty hands
Can actually touch
Even a traveler
In his long journeys
Could use a crutch
.......

I write from my heart
Whenever it bleeds
While running through the fires
Under my feet

I carry the guilt
That wakes you in the night
I could never back down
From a losing fight

I take for granted
The setting sun
I believe we'll see
A brighter one!

The day shall shine
Upon lost souls
I write from my heart
Because I know!
......