Writing poems, to holding heartbeats, from tears
to potential, butterflies over flowers, tender poems
in tender moments, lips parting, souls wanting to
share, what are the chances to meet a figure formed
here in reality, that not only matched, but exceeded
your dreams?
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My only empathy I have towards truth,
it cannot be meet without some sort
of resentment. It lights a quiet earth,
sparks conversations after thoughts.
To what I can smile at, an effort to improve.
Plato, lonely is it ever truth is. Conflicting
views, based on emotion, that devalues
parts of life. Plato, perhaps it’s not the
contents of truth, just a matter of
respect.
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Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.

To place importance on beauty can be argued.
Oh to theromantics, ask them, they’ll reply in
poetics, ‘perhaps their character cannot tame
it all and it drips onto their flesh and if they’re
luck, they’ll imprint earth.’ To which, if you ask
me about the earth, it's soulless, neither siding
with good and evil. It’s up to people to do so.
People give God or the Devil power. A question
to who is at best at enticing. But for me, I shall
have my coffee and be content in love until death.
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To the point in heartbreak, suffering
and seemingly endless, I guess there
is always a point, we all reach. Where
we all get, a private demon, that rides
us, torments us, well, until the end
that is. Like that split second, when
we hear the final melodies played
by Du Pre. And that demon is particular,
knowing all our gentle spots in our
souls, where our lover once touched
touched, kissed and breathed upon.
For a small moment in the spectrum
of time, we forgot about our private
pains, and let go, becoming slightly
more fuller of our real selves. ‘But that
is not meant to be’, said the Bluebird
chirping on the branch, as the serpent
directed us out of Eden.
(knowledge variable)

Perhaps those who write poetry
are meant to be in love with those
who read poetry. Emerging from
quiet reading spots. Roses, lush
moments, blushing cheeks, wild
smiles, untamed glances and
everything else that’s cliche or
not, that is related to love. Not
everyone is meant to live lonely.
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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.)

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
deep Angel dust in deepening substance.
Something like mixing Nostalgia in with
memories, experiences present and
my yearnings to be better than yesterday
is parenting my future.
Romance, an addiction and my obsession
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I’ve always considered sin is to avoid
the beauty, perhaps to prevent flowers
to bloom, never to hold a conversation,
never to look inside, never to meditate,
perhaps to what I thought sin is, is not
written. Perhaps it’s inside of me. The
duality of everything. Starting a riot
with oneself, duck taping one’s real character,
I’d rather learn to what I can take, when
I finally cross over and pray in the meantime,
that both Heaven and Hell will let me in.
And the prays are howling to the moon, sobs
to drown the ocean, dreams in the sleeping
Visions. That love to make any other love
seem so irrelevant. Praying for everything
to simultaneously happen now, except the
Forgiveness of sin. Feel each word to
each poem ever written.  
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If I could start from scratch, I’ll rage war earlier in attempts to conquer my own flaws, in order to be pillar and make something of myself, be a blessing to those I dare open up to, as some have been to me, growing pains is in retrospect, but I guess a contribution to youth is always adjoined to learning. If I could start from scratch, I’ll celebrate my 18th by vowing to stay clean, showing up to recovery and never saying a single to word any other in those rooms. If I could start my life from scratch, I would learn about death, growing my learning thoughts to its definition and learn how to die. We all die one day. And I’ll open up death’s fade. It isn’t a crime unless if they catch you. If you live for yourself, you’ll die in shame. If I could start from scratch, I’ll hug every person who is kind enough to say hello. If I could start my life from scratch, I’ll value reading poetry, for the sake of the poet, who had spent their entire time, articulating the world’s thoughts that are mixed in with emotions. I’ll respect the Devil, because truth doesn’t change and faith isn’t required when it comes to it. For now, if you get too close, I’ll clap you. And wouldn’t reside to victimhood when I got to leave home, because they had no money and the lack of understanding others leaves room of void, no one will truly know until we all trade places. Life isn’t promised, I’m still blessed to every dollar I’m getting. And I’m still being guilty of being anxious. I’ve given up on getting a fair go. Reality demands something else to what society gives back, the duality of humanity, breeds fair go to those who develop originality. To soak up pain, is to understand, but I wouldn’t dare to sing gospel, I’ll sit quite, because I heard that when one weeps, you’re alone. I heard a blast. When I die, I want to be a living legend. For they try to **** me. If I could start my life from scratch, I wouldn’t prevent myself from falling down, I’ll come to grips with it.There’s no other feeling like getting up and trying again.  Than again, I could part from my past, but never to replace it, so coast to coast, before going broke, I’ll ****** their wallets and run. Than focus on dying without a whimper.
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