A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.

you always spoke of a brighter future
were you referring to the 9 to 5 jobs?
to the apple pie life
or the romance lacking relationship with your wife?
did you mean the mortgages,
the taxes, or the men with grey hair in grey suits?
the jobs you do just for the money
or the people who speak too much, but are still mute?
did you mean the polluted skies or the cursing taxi drivers?
did you mean the way when she touches you, you feel no fire?
how nothing makes you feel alive
but you’re still not really dead?
how nothing is wrong
but you’re itching to put a bullet through your head?
when you said you were working towards a better future
did you mean a life of monotony, dullness and boredom?
what happened to your love of adventure, of mystery,
to your dreams of martyrdom?

looking back now,
would you take it all back?
would you change the way you did things
fill in the gaps?
or would you continue to oblige to the rules and regulations
would you still mindlessly follow the system?
would you carry on doing what they tell you?
those who bossed you around, would you still be with them?
or would you soar and fly
ask questions, ask why?
would you run in the jungles
and climb the highest mountains
would you swim in the seas
and tell your beloveds that you love them?

we only have one life
and we’re always waiting for it to change
we’re working towards a future
to which we have no claim
live, live, I beg you to live
make mistakes and fall
then get back on your feet
don’t hesitate, take it all
for the future is not ours
and the past is too late
but we have the present
don’t let it go to waste

Why aren't you smiling, while the whole world is smiling?
In this lovely day why aren't you shining?
Obstacles on your way but even fowls are crossing.
Instead of smiling why are always cursing
the world and her natural ways of judgment.
Life is full of jubilance, why the resentment?
Understand that life is the most wonderful element,
Rich and nourishing, each day lived is a divine fulfilment.
Why aren't you smiling when you should be rising?
Why are you still going backwards, forward is where you should be heading,
You should be smiling even when everything seems to be falling,
Smile each day, life is awesome and worth living.

*"Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero"
Live today and worry not about tomorrow.

Right as he begins to drift off to sleep, kiss his forehead.

Be his sunrise. Make him coffee in the morning, even if you do not want any. If he holds your hand, grasp his in return, with all of the love in your body. Feel his pulse; his heart, pumping blood through his veins, through his hands, through his fingers, which wrap around yours with passion and life. Let it consume you.

This way, when all is said and done, he will remember your lips on his sleepy skin, and how he was protected at his most vulnerable...how his mind could rise peacefully with your help. He'll look at his open palm and wonder if yours is warm, and he can almost feel you intertwined with his lonely bones.

It may sting in the moment, but you've created a fire within him that will never burn out, and all you can do is hope that the next set of bones interlocking with his will be well worth his time. You've given him standards. You've given him what every soul deserves. You've given him love. And what ache isn't worth love?

Grey fine lines,

intoxicating fine wines,

uninterpretable fine arts,

tiresome finance,

with unjust fines,

...fine,

I'm doing just fine.

O.Q-N

You finally found the power,
to pull yourself back up.

Awakening, to yet another
day of sadness.
The bleak – now fading-
Winter,
that storms at your window,
is the only reason you sat up.
The only reason you awoke,
in the first place..

Yet, when you lay back on your pillow,
inside you don't believe
that was the only reason.

And you pull yourself back up.