Let our very essence entwine, in our
breathe when we lean in to kiss. Souls
marrying, as our bodies make love.

Resist against part of the mind, you’re unable to achieve in mastering, like it’s been said before. ‘It’s too bad, ignorance isn’t painful.’ The snake, the rat, the cat, the goat, how are you going to see the dogs, if you’re living in the fog? Poetry cannot solely be the image of heartbreaks and new love. Nobody wants your dance or poetry kisses. Who’s your biggest fan? This life is brief and it’s pain runs deep. Drowning in effort, over the duration of you life, starlight turmoil, commit to art and die in glory. Every poem should now be on the theme of remembering, death is always definite, as for the immortality in this world, it’s soul-selling. People smile until others forget their name. Only poetry can read my mind, fewer friends will know that and only my lover can reach my inner-world, it’s my style. Life happens will it’s self-discovery or self-destructing and I’ll ride or die and best feeling I’ve ever had, is when I turn a new leaf, forgetting the world I’ve parted with, until I learn how normal the new are. We’re not vibing. Do not enter art, you’ll be poor of wealth, as for most, that’s what they value, how to measure success, few can achieve what some had already have. As for my lover, I cannot give gifts of these world, so, I only give my own words, forming poetry of high beauty, to which they’ll never articulate the sensations of touching illumination that you have given me, but they’ll do for now, poems unseen in this world. True kunst are in their everyday actions, grandeur happens, when the world turns and notices, and a smile is produced, it won’t last long, some of us like to read, but ignorance is always easy, it will be.
(knowledge variable)

When can a poem begin? In a dry throat,
knowing what words to say or does it begin
from finished experiences? Want to leap out
in far reaching forms in it’s enlarged arms,
full of thought and emotion. And if it’s fulfilling,
profond wisdom can be there, in complete
ways. For when I die, I wish for people not
to weep for me, for I’ve gone, I wish they’ll
forget, despite how easy it is to find me.
Coast to Coast, I’m across those harsh plains,
heavy torrent, ask the exiles. Between birth
and death. Everyday lived, is mine and if
I’m love, it’s between me and thy lover. For
I have something and went to it, ask the Devil,
I had grown tired of lost words or knowing
what I should’ve said, I've danced with the
Devil. People always want to change but
remain the same. The truth will be not be found,
until it’s believed, as for that, humanity can
avoid it, along with reality. Do not weep for
me, for I’ve crossed over and wish never to
be spoken to, I’m not hard to find, I chosen
something most fail to see. As for poetry, the
best kind is always a paradox and mystics is
too good.
(come creep with me)

At times poetry, I need something more than the courage
to endure what life presents itself to me, a series of events, for I want to be my own
    person, than being apart of something larger
    the only thing I can do good
     Is writing something in poetics.    
The wonder is filled with everything I don’t know. Initiated now as a outlaw.
Poetry, kiss me, breathe inside with cello melodies, haunting fashions, not of trends. I’m content to say good-bye.  Parting memories. Until the end of time.
Maybe it’s the individual in me.
We all wish for the pain to go away, but I cannot under it, all the time.
In those lonely times and facing death, the tears, the sadness, the regrets, wanting redemption and complete forgiveness, wanting to start from scratch. It’s all the same thing shared in humanity. We’re all going to die.
Rare is the one that wants forgiveness for the everyone involved with life.
I’m a kisser of romance. I’m a ******. It's easy to fall in love. As for that. I’ve been behind closed doors with most that I meet. The heart wasn’t built for heartbreak and the secrets of others.                      The civil servant, the priest, the maid of honour, the best man, whoever, they should up forced, press upon, harsh and hard thoughts and the spouse should always second guess. Until all that lust is cleanse out.                       Oh how little love there is in today's marriage. I’m laughing as a ******. Strapped with poetry and I romantic lean back, hanging with original romantics. Giving love only to purest romantics. They’ve got no love for you.
                                           Life itself, a blessing and a burden.
                                           It’s the same for everyone you know.
                                           For I felt the most holy feeling any
                                           Human could feel for another. And it allowed me to hold faith that everyone has a soulmate, someone that is just made for them. Wondering this earth’s surface.
The world is overfilling itself with people and life.
Grandeur in poems that are written and left for everyone to find.
Everyone is capable of sinning.
Knowing the Devil.
Trust me, not everyone wants you to be an individual, unless it’s like them.
A talent show, no. make waffles, with my hands, poems are my wetspot, don’t miss the chance to walk away into the world, there’s better things, but it’s a matter of how you think, don’t forget, yourself has to go with your better. If there’s a revolution going on, join in, even if it’s evil, there is revenge, but there’s something satisfying about seeing your teachers upset and especially seeing for the first time, they’re not as cracked up to be higher and holy. Life has a veil. I *** hard, like Lisa Simpson, I’ve meet Princess Di and it’s the first thing I said. And prayed harder for Princess Kelly, but I said it in neither English or French.
(knowledge variable)

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.

Life is everything of a broken pieces
of connected beauty. Not only for poets,
awes, moan and lovers. There is no such
thing of a precise speech, not even in poetry,
plus, the power lays with the others.
Sigh.

Without the strangeness of that horrifying feeling
about truly fully in lover, that bears me ****,
life would be dull and I dare say, pointless. For
poets singing music and forgetting about writing,
are generally the ones that have dived deep.
For the tenor never singing again, weeping as
they write love poems for thy lovers. I could not
live in a world, where everybody wears the same
face.
(knowledge variable)

For those with another, without any real love,
for how you have fallen for life’s cruel tricks,
another giggle from mocking time. Things fall
apart, is what death tells me as the poet cries,
forming articulated words of love. For how things
sway me. But not in faith that real love exists.
Knowing not what to decide, those idles who
provide a veil of love, or those who suffer by
following that veil, with red robes and a mind of
hope.
(knowledge variable)

1 -

No glares of missing eyes, just the one, at the center that soars high. Mst of all. It fles, careless and free. It’s hands pills precious wine, as it recites poetry about the end times. Conjure up as emotions of failures and shame, meet within. Not million, in fact in the billions dismissed the thought of arrival. Shutter in fear and weep to each word spoken, in that poem, that recites, in every detail, how your life will end. It’s tongue, doesn’t skip a beat, rhymes perfectly, in every human tongue. Though it’s a tyrant, some have complete devotion to such creature, redish aura over a dark shape. The eagles seem to cry. Rats and cats run to it, to pay their own homage. Fogs and dogs, mist and a devilishly ******* smell. Pigs talk and end up screaming about sacrifice. Such is early talks, of such end times. Prone to sudden fits of rage, wearing cold ****** to the creature, is as natural to him, as breathing is to you. Gold, *** with virgins, praises will be used, more valuable to what had just been written, one’s own soul, nothing in this life is free, everyone was given life, despite never asking for it. Master of famine, king and queen to poverty, dreamer user, inventor and distributor of disease. When voted in men and women give in, trenches of brave people, rage war, knowing privately they’ll fail. Still they try. No one is truly pious, it will take more than forever to master that trait and so very few are blessed with immorality. This creature has the attributes of a supreme leader, just without its own kingdom. For in no dogma, no myth, no whispers of physical storytelling knows of such creature, no prophecy, nothing, not even in Nostradamus. Endless it seems, for it walked to the horizon and back, perhaps it comes from the other side of the moon. Trembling slaves in chant in joy, from learnt pleasure and addicted to a self-produced evil, after so much, they grow to love, follow the creature, sweeping down to help. Fine, call it demons if you must, for most, that's the best their own imagination can conceptualize. People are their prized pleasures to take with them and eventually turn into them. Lust can be good. We’ve got something inherent in us and encourages us to be a bit more carnel, sinful, selfish and so on. Most just keep it a bit better kept, inside the privacy of their own home. After-all, in a democratic system, ****** got vote in. not in vain read this, do not concern yourself from where, how or why I write this. Death will come, the end of the world will come, just ask yourself, what will come first? Work for everything, but cherish nothing. In the transition, you’ll never be permitted to take anything with you. Just your soul to what makes you good and your sins to which you've committed, and will atone for at gunpoint. When you hear your fate, life will either be a total blessing or something completely unjust. Both will last forever after death or the end times. Solemn. Poets, be master of your word, painters, be master of your strokes, musicians, be master of each note. Do not live in angst people, life will be better before this time, without anxiety, at least some joy will be experienced and not something to be yearning for. Wild beasts will come and **** your first daughter and chop off the private of your first born. Without a care and it’s master will teach them how. Humanity is only a glint. One glint. Like a star. Pretty from a distant, something to philosophize over, than learn, but close at face sight, the star is already dead. Whoever said the struggle will stop today? A-lot of Mystics dead and never to be martyred. Plus, you don’t have any gold to give away, so you can remove your past. Underslung sky, now is not the time for fear, that comes later. Desolate intense resent nothing at the same time of everything. Bloated with both virtue and lust. Malice. For life wanted melody, instead, people got malady. The creature stepping over earth's land, people run, as that very military shoots and ending fail. It’s not monster film. People run, some stop to pay homage and offer their souls, as the so called demons **** them up, those people turn to sin and **** in **** form and iron race, become. For some, if they’re going to be talented, it’s far better to be such of someone in great fame, to things they've always wanted to do to one another. Most people die. The creature sets up camp, Astana. Takeover and demands complete and whole obedience. Holy books burn. Slaves for the rest still living, though mostly dark ashes fall from the sky, grey colour themes, burning bodies left on the ground and homeless children asking for their mothers walk, all people see is their personal fear. Lukewarm life is at best. Daring not to live anymore or any better. Once a servant to one's life, now just a servant to dying days. Violet in all violence. Voiceless tears inside interior chambers, cry private prays, not even confessing to one another, muted silence between people, saturate this earth. Marching to Zion, they’ve given up. And no network of hope or revolt. In harmony, all remaining poets weep at a blanket and shared evil, that everyone is experiencing under this rule. To the police, in tempest wrath, those demons that tagged along. This is a neo-empire outshining those before. It’s a shame that stupidity isn’t painful to one’s whole entire essence. Wanting avator’s. Getting none. Over a thousand year period, lavish pillars rise, it’s that humanity forgot about the godhead-figure, they simply forget. New omens provide a new scent for earth. Astana remains the capital of earth. With different races of tiled skin, phishing tongues, tall, green. Peoples private hell is prolonged. The rich **** any animal and tear off their skin, use it as fur coats, they smile. So let’s take a trip, where anyone can **** limp, ******* in public and spend money on any mofoe. Getting lonely, I can’t control it, pass me the blunt, let me roll it. Perhaps it;s doubt in anything that will bring pain, not knowing the truth that I had been hoping for to bring me freedom. Supreme leader is now the title of the creature. And everywhere he goes, are ****** ******, both men and women, preferably if they were under the age of sixteen. Because they haven’t been broken. With no floods, no locus, some disease, ****** became normal and a bit of ****. No money, a lot of silver, a neo royalty line is produced amongst people’s blood, the half cast between those demons and virgins, both male and female. Swallowing eternity. As any prince would laugh. Though from the sky, the earth is drowsed with new philosophy. In textile fields, elderly women tend to those fields, all missing one eye and stuck in old age forever. As young boys run naked around neo palace’s. Just only entertainment. Writers invent new tragedy stories, abated pale, blue and pure. Misting stageplays for giggles and laughing till it hurts in the stomach that encourages everyone who watches to give into lust. Like we’re all meant to do. Along watery plateau,  different breed of Mystics walk, those born in the world before that survived the initial stages, ate eagle eyes and living now, until time decides to stop mocking everyone and finally give up and provide the final solution. Under red dusk, those know most things are propaganda, freedom inside someone’s *******. ***** everywhere. Like steam leaking from any paved roads and newly built cities. Images strung from the air that remind people, peasants too be honest, that we all can die. Disc of time. Burnt colours. Nothing said about hope, love and romance. No weddings. As for babies, they pop up at random places, roads, dumpsters, fields with goats, public toilets and the nile. To whoever finds them first, by law they are the new parents. **** is punishment if those do not take the babies. **** kittens. Rereading of Ovid. Talk of having Latin as one language, going beyond this world. And Helen is her name. Streams of Blood. Phinx is his name. My king, my queen. What tears can bore? The dooming death and nothing forces us to change or to know, nothing greater than pain. Bore. shame and exile to those who age. Life is not for them to claim, old-fashioned school of thought, doub their words. Until a neo-poet rises from the ash below, drops of stars and Lions stand on their tongue, not from wrestling but out of respect, breed of new prophet in these times of neo-dogma. Revolt personally as a single person in revolution. People to pray to this poet as they write words on the second renaissance, where only those born to create great works of beauty to walk this earth, like Monks in a monastery. At the moment, until it defeats the creature, monster to any god, it's only a moment or glimmer of hope. One hero, born under one tree. Weaving thoughts of romance, soulmate to those with intelligence, poetic to the poor and match to one only, no-one else. Most of all, birthing life for those who deserve it.
(knowledge variable)

There’s no turning back from her essence, a devotion of deep discussions, enlighten intelligence, speaking in poetic forms, I’m blinded from her inner-world, teaching generations of humanity and leaving behind multiple renaissance. I measure the progress of my own life, by how content my lover is, I’m unable to see it any other way. For if that makes me morally wrong, parting from this world, fine, let it be. As for my lover, destiny has installed something greater, musings over this world, it’s ******* with your Heaven. It’s an historical event and something I witness in my own ****. For I’ve put too much work, investing in her love to turn back now. I’m desolate without, sinful without, the horrors of reality shadow over me, I’m unable to breathe without her attention, I wouldn’t last on the wrong path. Fo my entire essence, soft, gentle, tender and always yearning romance. I wasn’t born like this, I raised myself this way. For a brief and accidental moments, for I saw the entire worth of a woman’s inner-world and saw the face of God. And for the first time, I transcended, it’s beyond addiction, it’s life’s entire purpose. I leave my poems here, when I cross to the other side, so she can see my heart is pure.