Cherry blossoms, soft and bright,
Dance in spring, a fleeting sight.
Some teach us, like whispers in the breeze,
Lessons in petals, carried with ease.

Others bloom, blessings in the sun,
Filling hearts, dispelling the fun.
As they arrive, they too must part,
Leaving fragrance, a mark on the heart.

Cherish each moment, both lesson and grace,
For life’s like blossoms, a beautiful chase.
In seasons' cycle, we learn to let go,
Embracing the beauty in ebb and flow.

Is it true,
That a man who yearns,
Becomes a man who earns?

I yearn for you,
More than anything else,
For your sweet tender lips,
Softy milky skin.

But I already earned your love,
So can I earn something for you?
I want you to feel safe,
And stop feeling sorry.

What is this thing called poetry?
Is it words on paper,
Lined up nicely,
Rhymes assembled tightly?
Or is it a little deeper than that,
Is poetry a feeling?
A little flutter in your heart,
An echo in the fabric of your soul.
Maybe it's a small candle spark,
Flitting in the dark,
As you sleep peacefully.
So what is this thing we call poetry?

Deep in the Now,
there exists a kind of woman,
often attacked,
and sometimes rejected.

A warrior soul,
independent, rebellious,
the feminine in its purest state,
untamed and free.

She is the one
who left Eden,
forsaking the comfort of man
to carve her own path.

They say she was born
from Adam’s dust,
but made of pure energy
and empowerment.

She is where
the deepest passions
and the hidden faces emerge.

She is where life’s wounds,
fears, and shadows are faced,
where lost power is reclaimed.

A beautiful woman,
but I prefer her in the streets.

Because in my bed,
I want the one who surrenders,
the one who loves.

The one who cares for me,
and lets me care for her,
who speaks to me
through true communication.

And after long conversations,
time slips away unnoticed.

A beautiful woman,
in her fire and her calm,
Lilith in the streets, Eve at home.
Not because man commands it,
but because that is where she finds her balance.

In the dark I find myself empty,
Devoid of thought.

Devoid of feeling,
Reaching for something,
Grasping for anything.

Devoid of peace,
Hoping this feeling will pass on from me.

I met Happiness,
On the dreary streets of this gray city,
He picked me up,
And bought me bread.

I shook hands with Love,
At times a cruel jester,
Yet it's only a cover act,
To hide his deep sadness.

I talked to Inspiration,
The man himself,
He didn't have a lot to say,
But I felt wizened anyways.

I reached out to Solitary and Silence,
But nobody knew solitaries face,
So the news studio didn't let him in,
Silence simply had no comment.

Whenever there’s a storm,
And I hear the rain pour,
As the wind blows,
I’m reminded of the coziness of home.
That feeling of safeness,
A place to hide from the darkness,
When it seems hopeless,
A bed for your tiredness.
Though I know,
Not everyone has a home,
Or one that is safe,
One without pain,
So I feel empathy,
For those who may not be,
Lucky like me.
As I write these words,
I hear you,
And I’ll hold you,
In a tight hug.
It’ll be okay!
The storms aren’t here to stay.
Even though the winds may blow,
You can find a home.

It may sound narcissistic,
Paint me as a cynic,
But I must admit,
I sometimes surprise myself,
That everyone’s lives,
Are just as complicated as mine.
Everyone thinks,
Everyone feels,
Everyone cries,
And everyone dies.
The way people act sometimes,
Makes you wonder if there’s a thought beyond their eyes,
But there is,
Just like there is behind mine.
We are all complex people,
With desires and dreams,
Goals and aspirations,
Pain and fears,
Ups and downs,
Strengths and weaknesses,
It’s enlightening.

I guess you can't really have a haven anymore,
These days everyone is angry,
They want to rip it up into internet war.

Can we lay down arms?
Can we still find peace in places like these,
I don't remember this much random slander in 2024,
But I guess things can change fast in three months.

Hold your fire!
Stop the rounds,
Artist are dropping dead all around,
Rodger is an Echo, silent in the wind.
Someone dropped by,
Just to attack Hall and Truth.
When did the keyboard war reach these recesses?

You can't have jack anymore!
Not true, you could have it,
Had you not thrown it at the wall.
I never thought I'd be the one begging for calm,
Critique turned from a reward,
To an assault on anything on a page.

Paying an arm and a leg,
To get a political letter to the front page,
Just to ridicule any feedback you receive.
This went from an escape,
To a constant shock and turn around.
So can we just drop weapons please,
And focus on every ounce of love we pour into hp.