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.
(knowledge variable)

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
(knowledge variable)

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.  
(knowledge variable)

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.
(knowledge variable)

my demons come alive in the day time
not just at night ,
so if you ask me why
i never close my eyes ,
it just might be my mind filled with fright

with no chance of escape
i chase death to be my fate
should i hold my breath
i need not be saved
i must jump at the chance before it’s too late

hopeful to rise to heaven
as the demons cannot be risen
hopeful to leave this earth
with my body as their prison

if i should ever return
( that is believing in reincarnation)
amongst the streets a familiar face you’ve been missing

please , i beg of you

don’t tell my demons.

Gushing through the wave of endless sorrow,
I lift my head to the sky and gaze.
Looking upon the void that left me in amusement,
I exclaimed, "stars do shine the brightest when we were in total darkness".

When we fall and no other attempts
                                       to help us up.
But a enemy pulls us from our lowest point.

We know that friends are just an illusion
                 and enemies show there true colours
                                         through our hardships. enemies

Being the ones who are our hardest critics,
                                     but the first to clench
                               there fist is true meaning.

what happened to you?
that you were so afraid of messing up
these words mean nothing
and being thrown to the dust
because all these gifts and memories take nothing to the test
hyper visions of misery heightened, the wise are unknown
curses and shadows brew 'round their heads
or stars and spaceships from the planet of the undead

what happedned to you that you felt so empty yet so mad and angry?
a raging fire of something unseen, something unknown
far from your reach
they say expeirence and memories shape who we are
but i cant recall a gooddamn thing that made us who we are

what happedned that you could take that bullet to the head placing that gun inside of their hand?
a trigger, a flash, a ringing sound about
yet nothing splatters at the wall because we know once and for all
that what happened to you happened to me and no matter how much you think it might be
our names will never be graved in that stone
for one
one can only
die
a l o n e