Oh poetry, how it is illuminated by love
and left behind all poems are, because
love is such an awakening experience.
To which, it could not be expressed
in words that’s forms poetry.  
Oh poetry, I do wonder how many of
those in suffering moments, and continue
to suffer in private torment, all because
they could not break, from their reserving
shyness and even though all poetry is
encouraging.
(knowledge variable)

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)

Such an earthly being, noticing the frozen outside those
graves, no one to help cure, no poet for comfort, as for
myself, a mere echo, the afternoon, golden vast, peering
up, for I’m too used for angst and grief, oh reality, it is
tiring engaging with those emotions. Sigh. Flowers with
frozen dew on top, effort none, lost beauty, source mixing
well, intertwined with mystery, grips and holding onto,
loss of time is a loss of life, potential and so forth, I’m
holding a faithful longing, that things will brighten, matching
that sun that rises daily. Enlarged silence. For my inner
world does not match the outside, neither in the vice versa.
Wonder if I shall quit?  
(knowledge variable)

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.