Emotions made tender, but fair, fearing not the outside,
to what is felt inside, to play in eternity, to think in infinity,
be only that a paradox is, nothing else, nothing more, nothing
less, attempt to avoid despair and crying mood. As for you,
Bill, if the world is a stage, than the death penalty only applies
to the casting director. There is greatness outside poems,
romance too, sunburnt smiles and laughing memories.
Though for now, I shall write only about my death, fear, insecurity,
fault and flaws in written poetry. Not for comfort in. Just glittering
drops of silver stars, as for others to benefit from. It is worrying
only to be a paradox, living within immortality.

Delicate poems, flattery in times, the process of forever, devour my soul, the center of my inner-world. Flexible and strengthen in smiles. My love for you, no longer a spectre eyes, imagining ourselves, enticing the romance of poetry, into our breathing actions. Tending to our hearts.
In the yonder future, vast terrains of blank and nothing. Where we’ll absolutely nothing else to do, beside creating love in eternity. And time itself, everything that a memory is. Holy beauty shall know us. Marble statues and songs by tenors, other poems, homage only, echoing around as a famous shadow in any world we leave behind. In truth be told, only each we have only to truly find.
Temper never. Tempt me now lover. I will cave in and be enslaved by volunteer joy. I’m not burnt out. But will become of what you make of me. As now, you conquered immortality. Turning into illumination in the silhouette.
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As not in poetry, for when a romantic falls in love and it’s given back, all those wishes in yearning dreams explode at once, fallen over in dripping embers, matching beauty fireflies, symbols in poems. Romantic gestures in labouring hands, repertoires and addiction is apparent. No muse could ever possibly help detox the romantic.
Despite the cliche of meeting in
glances in the eyes and that smile
that doesn’t restrain itself. Not even a supernova could come between, no conversation of a tempting Demon could distract, not even the promise of Heaven by any Angel could tear down their connection.
Changing the ways their pray along with their very essence of existence.
Call it blasphemy if you want, not knowing God’s opinion. Exalting feelings in poetic sentiments. Marble statues raised in homage.
Romantics turned lovers.
Fate is here and never meet until now. Revelation inside and a revolution in a quiet mood. A paradox in this world. Lovers living their destiny as the rest of humanity whimper in conforming ways.

Love, romance, cliches, eye glancing, smiles and giggles. They live outside poetry and romance novels. Lovers exist. Hand holding, moonlight silver glow, that glitters off from objects on earth. Sensations in moods from the emotions hiding in essence. Forming itself in personal illumination.
Tingling from taking notice,
sacred to poets, altered hearts,
going beyond material success,
disregarding a world and it’s
self-made reality, forming a new.
Not sparked from philosophers. No symbols. No global revolution. But a conviction that a soulmate does not belong in poem, nor any other romantic art. Neither in the cosmos or some sort of parallel world. Forgetting dreams. Murdering fears and insecurities.  
Perhaps in embellishing in the romantic arts,
I had snorted magic, rather than man made narcotics.
Salt on rebirth, willing not to give up, on my personal
belief that love exist within this world.
(knowledge variable)

Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing ****** minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after ******* sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.

Poetry, the power to conceive an experienced emotions,
letting it loose in freedom, spoken tongue and fluttering
eyes, reliving an foundation to move forward. Knowing
full well, that death is definite. While I’ll speak as others
read. I do wonder what freedom is made from. Whether
it’s in this life or the next. Until the end of time, I’ll continue
in poetry and so far, it’s the best form comfort outside the
lovers arms of safety.

Falling like sunlight
Fondness.
Tonness. Intervals of kindness.
To be in the library, is be in the center of the knowledge of world. Dexterity.
Decilate in art.         Accidental philosopher.     Diplomat to the outsides.
Breathless figure.
Inarticulate sounds. Fluttering. I lust for poetry. Over influcration. Embellish in romance. An enchanted landscape. A place to escape. Forgetting the world’s troubles. Inspiring colours for painters. Strong affections, enough power to break mountains. Deliberate.  
Child to romantic soil
A child to hope,
rude poem,
Lover
creator of ballads and a voice to those who remained in faith to our love
that explodes inside. Thou shall be in poetry, a following, a celebration of finding love.
Faithful.
Never
to
give
up.
What new experiences can be made, from out of it?
Waking conscious and worth saving.
Lesser people wander aimlessly to the mundane and daily living of life.
No more, where meaning and contentment is away from us. Self-doubt, second guessing, the unknown wanting. Parted and given us it’s words it will never return.
Awakening happening in common people.
Wisdom like a philosopher,
patience,
like a monk.
Honey for the world. Silk flowing over lovers.
Not a mythical pedigree, changing into mythical logic fame
Rising above those outside, with moth-eaten dreams attached to them
Romance flowing here, inside of us,
innovating ourselves, to a self, not yet fully conceptualize.
Under lamps that shimmer along the theatre district or at the painting corners, using every colour or shade one could touch.
Yawns between lovers. Declaring new sensations, as we stare at one another, peeking into the souls.
Acting on love, in endless ways.
Imagine, living a life, no matter of one’s rank and all ignorance drips, vices drop and died. With everything you’re seeing, is a tempting beauty and it’s fruits is beyond to what one is expecting. So far, nothing in us defines us, only musings inside.
A scent from butterflies smiling filling out our immediate presence. Soft spaces and we speak of cello music, holding violets, unable to look away.
Luminous in rich olive’s, magnetic and yet, highly ******. Always more than something we write in lines of prose. ******* to one another, despite being free in the search of love and truly being who we are meant to be. As it turned out. We’re in each other’s life, trapped in the cage of the others inner-world, drowning in holy love.
Instead of a call, living in each other is the process of healing towards illumination in rebirth.
They are the poets of love,
we are the actions of those poems.
That are always too slow
and our soul is spreaded over, too
many poems.
Muses, let us innovate,
as you allow them, to
emulate, outside Eden,
footprints over earth. Turning together, presing footprints on earth, naked in the ****.
I mind how I spend my time,
if it’s with you, the meaning I know now, is experience,
bear stripped heart
outside your presence, I experience the Devil’s revenge.
And I begin to
resent life
and tear myself down to my knees, sobbing for forgiveness.
Love has no need or time, for suffering.
Angels rubbing their eyes, to make sure this is no dream. An empire to last. Love now, as if forever exists. Echos in interstellar.  Devil in a hurry. Poetry flourishing, like a flower in the desert. Beauty in a singular spot. Silence and solitude. Painting. Open piano.
Quantity of dust and ashes, time clocks on.
Poetry is the written salt along to Heaven, maybe Hell.
Social maze. Landscapes of emotions. Thinking thoughts.
Wasting no genius.
Under the rain of beauty.
Dazzling and eyes who ventured to read, with a wild spirit, self-wishing to self-tame. Lovers are always infamous.
Delicacy in touching with thy hands, dispensing in romance. An essence of everything, I see clearly. Unable to turn away. I’m left alone. Most are peasants when it comes to love. Yearning to soak in a lovers arms.
Dragging streets, out of a smell. Wider places in vast population. I’m alone in a crowd, where everyone else had labelled them ‘humanity’. Reflecting wealth, freedom, grandeur and the arts. In poverty, sorrow, friends and pain.
More refined everyday.
Spontaneous life.
Violent blue eyes. Tilting your head up. Glittered with hope and expectation. One gesture, shining rays of sun, falling upon you, made for paintings, immortalized in my memory. The greatest poem, in the eyes of the romantics, is always expressed in the action of their soulmate. For that is never to be shifted. Costing the world it’s own value, including the wonder to the cosmos.
Maybe it’s a distant destination to fall in love. Complete, whole, true and pure. Within what poets say and performed outside poems. An invincible manner. Where sun rages. Moon silver glow. Composed to be transfixed on love. Dogma spoken from her mouth. Kisses as baptism. Hearts as altars. Landlord over my soul. The be all, to end only me. Living here, but, it does not seem like reality. It is. Not in poetic fashion. Nor romantic. It is, truly musings. For we are the ones doing so. Credited by Angels. Bathing us, songs for prophets. Ruining the taste for earth. An odyssey. Labyrinths. Myths. Folklore. Rumours. Stories. Full circle. Arch of eternity. Burning and raging. Doubting no more. Feathers scattered across this land mass and ocean full water earth. Our inner worlds are ours, no others. It’s where we keep the real poetry. Blessed. Everything else, it’s in the other side, unseen to most. Besides mystics and muses. And a couple of monks. Running art, faster than the wind is blowing.
Conflicting poems.
Obscure on purpose.
Erratic, like thy moods.
Beauty flushes.
Pearls of wisdom.
Dying.
Dancing stars and forgotten poems.
Savouring each moment in thoughts and memories. Recover from a life unlived. Spotlight.
Anxious to improve.
Compassion, toiling bells. Bouncy eyelashes.
Sphinx,
claps,
soul.
Repress the image of me.
Existing in thy mind. Painful rose. Tilting. Stumbling to touch life that has never been lived. Unequal destiny. Flaunting. Presenting a face for earth. Bursting.
Freedom is demand, freedom isn’t here.
Lovers in the third eye.

Inside to inner life, enticing lovers to come forward, a landscape richness of images and emotions. Marble statues, raised in her image, paying homage to god-like achievement.
Never to be loosened, folklore mixing in with reality. Weaved poems from casting romance roles, under moonlight and around candlelight. Green glow and owls.
Sleepless night, meeting one’s own dream, when those myths collide with reality to explode over earth, as every word in dogma is instantly forgotten. And it’s too late, she’s burnt in the memory of immortality. It’s a exorcism from humanities sins, hidden demons and no holy water.
History is dull.
As the romantic place in poetry, providing praise. Smile knowing there isn’t anything wrong of forever believing in spellbinding love. For living outside being so, not worth living. Stepping outside the paradox. The commitment to love, processed over a lifetime and built from scratch. No one ever has to wait, taking comfort in poetry, dipped in honey. Perhaps it’s glory, poetic exaggeration, though everyone wants to be saved, perhaps no one really does, though it’s always the other that saves, to be on a pedal steel with roses thrown to the feet is the only price to pay, is one some do turn away from. Cigarette smoke in jazz ballads. Fear not, fear never and the only regret is loss of life of one’s personal history in avoiding thee. Maybe we’re just molded from the same star and just wanted to discover ourselves first. Life happens now and it never waits. For now, in regal imagery, I see in, death is still definite.
A tyrant to one’s heart,
the foundation for humanities poetry,
and when I think of love, it’s your actions is what come
first to my mind’s eye.
As for poetry, will never truly understand or express
deep love that’s experienced.
And worry, I’ll never be able to fulfill musings ways of love.
Despite poetry’s attempt to teach.
A person, that Heaven can’t replace with any Angel.
Perhaps this only a dream.
But I learnt from poetry, it's good
to have feelings and just want to vibe.

Cliche beginnings, eye catching glances, images layed over heart, ****** lust. Touching civilization. Constant linage over time. Felt and now posed in forever. Flamed passions, wild hearts, glaring from the eyes.
Heaven smiles. Earth blushes.
No longer to argue with society, protesting against, never. Inclined to give in. Forgetting about the normality of life, where others suffer. Love left to experience as something happens to others is sill and thought dripping poetry, is now one’s own hands. A souls liberty. Dream fulfilling. Intimate moments. Mimicking poems. Glowing engagement between two.
If it’s told in theatre, proposals for immortality.
Shocked and accidental.
No sense of possibly returning.
For they are not who I had expected. Neo. How saving hee, never. Oh how love deems and falls, melting over one, like gold over marble. For I never asked, dreamt of, or even yearned for. Though they are there and I cannot turn away.  
Normal in love.
Different outside the normality of where we both come from.
Whimpering without, like a child
and I roar when she’s around.
Feeling utterly untouchable, brave to be thyself as we experience contentment.
Poetry follows but will never emulate.
(knowledge variable)

Blaze a blunt, because they’re all in, finally made it, feeling good, like I wanted. Out to pour honey over the silk, be back before lunch time and call a pusherman. Making ends at the last straw. The wind will now your thoughts, as soon as they leave the tongue.
Voracious mass spreaded in poetry. Produced thyself, for myself, crystallized in memory. Like my emotions had been froze, harsh times in hardships had my heart still and muted. For every word written in hope to explode profound sensations. Burn. Smile at awareness. Heaviness in wisdom, whirlwind of poetic allures.
Infusing in the veins of others. Images of me printed on your memory. Invictus enigma. I stayed closed up, poetry is a selling tool. It’s been a long time. I open up for those who toil in their efforts. Eyes tightly sealed. Staggering in my absurdity. Plucked from obscurity. Where you lived once in the void of life, where they all in strange ways placed value in the most mundane actions, in a place now where reality had collided with mythological events. Turning out folklore.
My entire life has not been in protest of human principles.
Just saw the worth in innovating originality, to go out make something of thyself. Because the life lived without confront it’s destiny and conquering my own personalized fate, was not worth one simple-basic moment.
As for those I’m not apart of. Do not weep now or never. It’s such a waste.  I left to cross over. Rumors spark chatter of death.
(knowledge variable)