symbol of contemporary life
packaged, preserved,
instructions on the side.

simplicity of modern day,
pop stamped symmetrical;
hunter gatherer.

collect them into rows
italian chopped tomatoes
best before date, barcode.

tin can still bites,
like bramble thorns,
to repel against harvest.

boxed up comfortable living
adding edge to expectancy
countering convenience.

It was the sky’s turn to switch palettes of colour. Though he forgot how, and they overflowed.  
Excited for the marscarade ball sky decided to hold.
Colours danced epotic like that never told.
A cream white river sliced in half.
Azure heard thistle laugh.  
But I blinked and the ball had settled to black.
Twilight again.

The most
dangerous thing
i can ever do
is be nice to you
i try
i try so ******* hard to help
to show you
what it's like to be a good person
one thing i learned tonight
i would go
to the ends of the world for you
yet you wouldn't do the same
i try to fix people
i like to think i am helping
yet the only person i am not able to fix is me
took me years and years to figure out
why do i find myself in this exact same mess
every single time
getting ****** over
friends turn to foes
i never believed them
until it happened
again
and again
and then again
always wondered
what the ****
where the **** did i go wrong
i thought i tried
guess i was wrong
about me
about you
about everybody
it took me so long to realize
til tonight
it hurts
because deep down
it was the truth
he knew
and it hurts
people around me sees it
yet why can't i
am i too nice
i guess that's what life is like today
being nice is bad
being nice makes people to turn against you
being nice isn't as nice
as you think it is
so there you go
i lost someone
who didn't care
but you lost someone
who did

J.G.S

Great poetry can derive from the greatest isolation,
Conjure and fades away, in reality, art is produced,
resulting in higher dreams, yearning emotions and
at times, thinking thoughts, exchanging verses over
melodies inspiring to sing. One poet, can write one
poem, that sparks something more than a personal
revolution, changing tides to change Earth’s patterns,
like bring the second renaissance, where in actuality,
the poet only wanted romance. Where it’s always
kept at a large distance

Fairytales begin in love at first sight,
But it was before, long before today,
When princesses wore dresses,
When all you can get is a smile.

Then he’ll ask her name,
How beautiful she is,
Then ask her to dance,
And when they shall meet again.

But I tell you it was before today.
When there are only ladies and gentlemen.
When romance is graceful,
When attraction eventually grows to love.

Now, fairytales begin at the first kiss,
And love is not necessary.
She’s drunk and he as well,
And they get what they wanted.

Both are strangers to each other,
But did you see how their eyes talked?
By how slowly the night deepens as they go closer?
But then they shall never meet again.

Before today it was love that was sealed,
By a kiss treasured till forever.
But what’s tonight ends tomorrow,
What’s tomorrow will be oblivious of tonight.

Poetry, death isn’t the end. A good poem
will stain the minds of those who read it.
Like a the perfect lover who  had left,
memory is consumed by them, while
experiencing regret now. Leading one
to the mysterious rites and rituals (I
got comrades, murdered and resurrected).
Enigmatic mystic, craving only touch - again.
Not something, where poetry nor mysticism
could ever provide. Rebirth

Навкруги  темінь, відчуваю
Легенький свіжий подих вітерцю
Навколо ні душі, лиш зорі світять
Немов далеке ясне світло ліхтарів.
Великий жовтий місяць сяє,
І розганяє темряву нічну;
Нема нічого, тільки світло є
Яке, мов спис, пронизує пітьму.

Час зупинився, і здається,
Що плин його не можна відновити—
Нічну ідилію не можна припинити,
Закарбувалась в пам'яті вона.

Нема нікого, залишилось світло
Яке долає темряву нічну,
І чути шелест листя під ногами,
І скрип дерев в осінньому парку.

I can't remember the last time I looked into the mirror,
And didn't see the vague shell that I am today.
Because today, my body bleeds passion for the uninspired
My skin, shrink wrapped over hollow tree branches
That extend to the beachy shallows of my body
That not even I can see anymore
I am a withering tree who's leaves cannot grow
And roots are dry
I am the stiff wind in January that will burn your cheeks,
I am the only thing that keeps two people apart.
Yet, I will shout from corridors and mountain peaks alike,
I am fine

I want to write a poem for
the sincerity of your fingers
the small silver stream that flows
from the edges of your forehead
to the ends of your hands
the thousands of cyan workers
digging the frets with their bare members
the breath that breeds forget-me-nots
on each rhythmic exhalation

I want to write a poem for
the gentleness of your fingers
the sky that blooms within
explosion after explosion - and then
crushes and then blooms again
the thirsty animals anticipating
patiently the rain
tightly embraced

I want to write a poem for
the taste of your fingers
salt, lustered shells and metal
from carcasses of boats
-one, two, three, four, five
six, seven, eight, nine, ten
forbidden fruits
for as long as this poem holds,
my very own.