When He was born,
He cried into the void of space,
Searching for the comforting voice of calm.

But only silence returns His call,
His tears echoing of the dark edges of the dark.

But He taught Himself to walk,
How to shape something with His own hands,
Then He made a world to answer back.

Unmask your own façade – that veil of one’s significance over
meanings to a meaningless question. We are just consumers in
this monotony of existence, a mere statistic for our emotions
being manufactured for the world’s grand theatre of parading,
one’s weakness.

And are we not taught how to measure worth by the measure
of things you acquire? We surrender to this illusion of perfect
love peddled on glowing screens; waiting on the glow of feelings,
to expect out hearts to glow by fire.

And I find control in this world an illusion; the tighter you hold
onto what you believe is yours, the more it slips through your
fingers – lest it be your own self-control; to tame your flesh that
leaks sin out of its pores. As time is an investment, but a currency
that only death can claim fully, when all our hours dwindle. Love
and hate are two sides of the same coin; as our capacity to love
fiercely, is matched only by our readiness to quickly hate when
the masses rally – though love is the stronger force to leave one
eager, or so fickle.

Life is simply everything and yet, paradoxically, nothing – as
nothing endures eternally, resting in the world. Life is sculpted
by the hand of a Creator, who calls his creations home as their
bones grows cold, and skins old.

Tis a poem on life.

I’m almost a poet.
I almost make sense
Enough to impress
Others with my senseful nonsense

I’m almost a poet
And I almost understand
Others’s poems and other poets
In the end no use, I tried to no end
But I like to pretend.

I’m almost a poet,
My metaphors are almost immersive enough
And my edges and corners are almost not rough

I’m almost a poet
I’m almost there
But not quite
I’m almost a poet
Almost - a man.

_M

a mystic queen of clouds
stirring her golden mixing ***.
arms reaching up in crowds,
heads and legs getting caught.
she fully douses the creatures
in the prismatic solutions,
giving them distinct features
and eccentric attributions.
one by one they climb the ladle,
making neat rows of eight
up on the big smokey table.
her tiny whispers seal their fate.
making hexes, casting spells.
her eyes satisfied yet sharp.
off you go! she gracefully yells
as her novice sounds the harp.
wings of glass burst out their backs.
the creatures scared of its source
yet they mindlessly grab an axe
their monarch has her faithful force.

No great story ever started with darkness?
Do you not know the greatest story ever told started with darkness?


Once upon a time,
Darkness plagued the land—
A great, powerful, grave darkness.
Darker than anything, man knows.
And how could he,
For man never lived in that darkness;
It was before time itself,
For there was no sun,
There was no moon,
And no stars, or plants.
There was only separation
Of the darkness and the Light.
And great was their separation,
As great chasms divide us from one another
So there was between the darkness and the Light,
But at this time darkness was known by a different name,
For it was not but the absence of light
But the absence of all that is good and holy.
It was called chaos,
For apart from the Light,
No good could be found.
And so it was,
And it was good.

Until the angels fell with thunderous rejection
Cast down from the Light,
For their hearts were filled with chaos
And hardened to fit their form.
So their hearts were set against the nature of the Light;
Their chaos was filled with murderous intent,
Hatred of their faithful kin,
And displeasure in the good nature of the Light.
And he who led them had great envy,
Desiring that the light would be his.
Plotting for glory and power
To be placed in his unfit fist,
For once he carried the Light true and pure,
But now his chaos made him unfit,
For it would disgrace the Light
And inflict wrath upon him.
For no chaos could touch the Light
Without severance of chaos,
And bound to body and mind was their chaos.
So the prince of chaos plotted for his own glory
Yet brought wrath upon him and his followers,
Mistaking what he once held to be his.

And it is this darkness that blinds us so.
Making us selfish,
Mistaking what we held, to be our own bit of light,
For only what is holy may hold light.
We, man, are nothing more than the spawn of the Light.
Who, like the accusor and his kin, chose chaos
So that we may do anything our heart desires.
And the Light, being gracious and true
Did not sever us from the light
But granted us audience through the Sacrifice
That we may reflect the Light
As we did on the day of our birth.

Razorblades grating the graphite
Sharpened to a point,
Infinite are the worlds pouring in torrid thought
Scribble them and refine
Render until the faces define
God of two-dimensional clay
Golems of creation,
My darling, characters.

And in this life, we:
Live, we regret, we learn –
Lessons from regret

And for bodies, we are:
Skins, touch, ecstasies in –
Two hearts that touch

Finally, we are all to:
Love, give breath, have *** –
To expect, another breath

              We all create.

I stared at my monstrosities, I looked them in the eye, swimming in pools of ink.

Silent in their darkness, I spoke.

“I forgive you,” I whispered, breaking their unyielding gaze.

They reached for me,
a single claw, then many, tangled into a mess of limbs and bone.

Pulled into an embrace, thorny vines twist around me, their eyes lock on mine.

Resistance made the vines tighten,

I welcome them inside

Our embrace into melting and melting into growth,

creation

I stared into the mirror expecting to see a monster,

but all I saw standing before me was human,
flesh and blood,

and darkness too.