Your smart, but arrogant,
Now, just a fragment.
Part of me, inevitably,
Half the duality.
Too proud to listen,
To learn,
To see,
Everything we could be,
Lost in our fantasy.

You see life in purple and blue,
Violet undertones and a cynical hue,
Pessimistic narcissistic,
**** me, ******* too.
Scratching biting and pulling,
Life tears into full view,
We move past it, always dull,
Pain and misery follow through,
Changing the narrative,
Becoming passive,
Our lives comparative,
To collateral damage.


So beautiful and sharp,
with eyes of Tanzanian blue,
Lips so tight and lush,
Spinning my mind you're a rush,
I idolised you, loved you more than I knew,
There was nothing I could do,
from boy to man I grew,
My love is my homage to you,
Part of me and you too,
Embracing everything we are,
What we've been through and couldn't do.

I let you go I gave you that version of me,
its uncanny to the real thing,
Alike not akin, the aesthetics paper thin,
Different mind different day,
Price I pay of a chameleon soul,
Never a permanent role,
Now i live a life of arrears,
No place I can find,
No tears no fears,
Without any peers,
The life of Danny.

I have not that divine intercession
to pluck the right word from all been written,
that gifts to few the art of expression,
to write the poetry of the smitten.

I pen verses of no significance
that sing melodies in my ear of tin,
embarrassments to poets of romance
in whose company I wish I were in.

Oh, to write odes to nightingales and urns,
with love as an extension of my quill!
Although I do not lack passion that burns,
I’ve not the talent that matches my will.

Here is another literary blight
authored by one who just thinks he can write.

If we lived loud enough
To silence the voice of reason
And wore our true colors
To show who we truly are
Our soulmates would glow
Like rays of sunshine
Calling us to come home
And our dreams would be realized
Faster than we can take it all in
We would meet lovers and friends who will never leave us
And see the world for what it truly is:
A mixed bag of heroes , liars , angels and demons.

Do I need privacy
when my emotions and thoughts
are flowing
and I need to express my self
to my self
to become self-aware?
Yes I do need privacy!

Writers,
poets,
artists,
songwriters
bleed pain into art.

But don'y you understand
pain is not art.
They embellish pain,
to cement the heartache.
They craft darkness
hoping to enlighten.

But in the end,
agony is agony,
no matter how you express,
how you make it bleed.

Emotions from words,
on tear stained pages
captivate readers
making them believe there
is solace in darkness
and leave them forlorn to be adorned.

But their intention was not to
glamorize plan but rather to let it be
their outlet of expression,
therapy and to create.

In the end there is no substitute,
agony is agony,
grief is grief,
illness is illness
and that what it will be.

Sometimes I write poetry to cope:
freely expressing
my emotions and thoughts,
relieving my mind
of burning exploding emotions
and incessant thoughts
which were seeking my attention.
Once I have carefully clearly listened
to distressed emotions and impelling thoughts
they dissipate
leaving my mind in peace.

Once I have clarified
in a poem
what I am feeling and thinking,
then I philosophically reflect
on what I am feeling and thinking,
striving to discover wisdom
about the practical issues
my emotions and thoughts
have raised in my mind.
Thus, poetry is my path to wisdom
by which I achieve more joy and happiness.

Him: What exactly is the point of that?

Her: The point is that you’ve got something inside you that has to be let out, something that would die otherwise,
and you would die too if it was lost.