Poetry, is it fine to view upon
thy lover as Angel at all times?
It’s heightened in tender moments,
where she’ll rub her hand, down
my face. For how many times
poetry, I wrote poems of love,
prayed and wished upon her,
that the muses had no choice
for this uncreated love to come true.
(Now things will never be the same,
oh poetry, is my past leading to
this moment worthless, cause it
is without her or just a path in aches?
But it’s just the way it is.)

My own importance to the world is small and stupor to some, slithe and soothing to my own essence, diamonds in the lights, aligning stars in the night.
        
                                 Wonder what it takes to come alive
                                                              And it usually something simple

                Lovers with unqualified praise that never deny potent poetry

I often kiss her, not to taste her, I often want to escape, so I dream to diver into her soul. Glorious treat, outshining caviar. It’s when anything exotic is devalued. To be accepted with a sinful past, clean smile, a rapture in one’s life, to fall in love and to be loved greater back.  Awakening transforming period, to impress any Mystic, there’s forever and I hold it, if only I praise her, how I’m I supposed to use it otherwise?

    A golden mask, hides sin
                                           Love is for the brave with sin in their soul
                                           Life is given freely.
                                           Oh poetry, you can never express what I feel for her.
Pure love produces the highest forms of poetry
And the lovers heartbeat, causes tremors everywhere, including the cosmos
that permit every supernova to move.

As for the rest this, love is meant to be experienced and never to be told to others.

Sorrow belongs to people, being frantic in despairing
disappointment, belong to love being turned down, as
memory is recorded, immortal image of love. Flee from
me.

In the time of dying, you’ll remember when you
have meet and turned away from thee lover, for
whatever mystical reason, redemption can be
offered, whisper their name, whisper it loud echos,
never stop the streaming image of thy lover, there
is no cure for love, none, you’ll carry the lover
over to the next life. Will it be a burden or blessing?

I’ve seen it, now I belong to her, to no other now,
I’ve seen her whole and true beauty, threading
everything that's forever, I cannot deny my inner-world,
lover, we’re in our own world, like we should.
Smile for me now.

“It’s far better, to do your own duties imperfectly,
than to master the duties of another.”
Lord Krishna

Even just to live, takes extreme summouring
threads of courage. To have that same courage
to be self-produced, is even rarer. Without
anxious dependence, as this present, unfolds
into the future, parting from the past. To stop,
for a single second, to have romance, under
candlelight. Blessed. There is no easy way
from earth to Heaven and to dance with the
stars, that humanity call ‘constellations’. Do
not debate it, those who dare to live originally
is the brave, without fear of persecution. Material
wealth slaves the fool and has the potential to
master the wise, the poorest person is the one
who still wants more. The sun still rises and
even on sin, it still shines. To whoever has ever
experienced love, knows how to turn themselves
into a muse to poets. And there I go, to cross these
plains in utter exile, in hope to avoid death
(knowledge variable)

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

There are points or moments, worth
not knowing why. The best muse, is
the muse I cannot have. I look to poets
who write better than thee.

Sometimes I feel the present colliding inside,
as the future declares war, both pressing upon,
I’m unable to focus on the present. Be with me
now. There is no poetry without some sort of
suffering. Despite how much this poem seems
to lack.
(knowledge variable)

Thoughts expressed with emotion, do not criticize
if one cannot understand, thought look at it, as
if it’s something you cannot accept. As for the artist,
generally they become their own heros. If not, life
will be a bore, unable to fit into something normal.
I’m in too deep to change, I’m already dead, because
everyone looks unfamiliar and I swear I’m going to
die at the hands of someone I know. And that’s real.
No-one can **** the soul of someone’s creation.
(Knowledge Variable)