Freedom heated inside, burning in the crying teardrops, cult like chants drawing me in, struggling to master myself, perhaps it’s because of this world.
Limitations not on account of dogma and its religion, society or peers. I’m happy to converse with the devil, and sell my soul.
I can keep secrets, lover, we’ve got to be blood in and blood out. Freedom exists elsewhere and finally I’ve transcendent.
(knowledge variable)

Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.

Use words
As your swords
To cut any border
Of any many
Use words to give birth
To everything worth
Speak words out
An action no doubt

i just think that it lacks subtlety
to type out words so loose and free
from rhyme, they are but conscious streams
deserve not, the name, poetry

and, in my opinion, it is a sin
to explain a poem, it's adolescence
to spoil the hidden secret within
for the art of lyric is not a whim

my poems are so much better than yours
for they sound like the songs of yore
and if they do contain a lore
it needs no explanation, of course!

now, take this with a grain of salt
for those who tend to be appalled
by the insensitive, one with the gall
to criticize and not applaud

or appreciate the messages
written by one's fellow poets
this act, which mutiny, approaches
unfeeling soul, the heart, atrocious!

i'm actually just kidding around
with ideas of an unknowing crowd
whose opinions are just so... profound
for some reason, it makes them proud

and who might I be speaking to?
what sane person is such a fool?
a younger me, lacking reprove
had the daring to be so rude

i can feel
your scorching gaze on my skin
searching, probing
and then easing
when you find
that my author
was not that stupid
to create
a debacle

for poems are sheets
designed to capture meaning
ad infinitum

happiness
saddness
permeate
culture
etched into
paper
taking no form
fluid
changing
free