the soul ages not,
but agelessly grows;
in sleep, in dreams,
in realms immortals repose;
refreshes and rejoices,
born again it returns;
from death to life we arose,
resurrects, each, every dawn.

The Soul ages not, agelessly it grows
In sleep each night, to realms unknown it goes.
In dreams, lands immortals repose, hinted.
Refreshed, renewed and rejuvenated,
The Soul returns and we're resurrected.

Immortality is just pretend
Everything's gonna break in the end
Just like wave to rocks behind the sand

When I'm with you
We don't exist in the usual world
We enter a distant place, a place of which noone has heard

When I'm with you
We get detached from reality
We enter a state of pure immortality where everything is a possibility

I think the only way to truly live Forever is to die young and tragically; to go in some incredibly mysterious way; that would be superior and most definitely unforgettable and that could quite possibly be immortality.

Poetry is a form of life after death.
For spoken words lives on forever.
Even long after we're gone from earth,
Our words will be read everywhere .

One Poet Called it the immortality of arts
Which I wholeheartedly agreed with. beyond this and all reasonable doubts,
Through ink,poetry is guaranteed a rebirth.

                          #IB-poetry( c)
                           31/01/2019
                          #Bassapoet

You want to make something beautiful.
You try on your many hats-
Can you make art that stirs hearts to syncopated fluid intake?
Can you sing songs that lift the diaphragm?
Can you move in a dance that will bring your audience’s tear ducts to full production?
But you are not good at those things.
And you are not patient- here’s where it gets difficult.
You are not patient, so you move on.
You pull more hats from the closet.
You want to make something beautiful, so you save lives
In safety features for automated factories,
In the stitch of a needle through shredded flesh,
In the measure of a brace in a new office building
But you are too good at those things.
You want to feel like you’ve made something beautiful
Not just looking back, but as you make it
The stroke of a brush forming the curve of a lover’s cheek
The curl of the final bracket in a series of nested loops
The flex of your shoulderblades and press into the pillows
Everyone wants to make something beautiful,
In blood, in sweat, in paint
In lyric and code, in ink and tears
They want to have made something extraordinary by the time they die
So they can say they did, so it wasn’t a waste, so it just
So it was, and is, and could be forever.

Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Moonlight held but just Ourselves -
And faux Immortality.

We ventured forth - Upon a Summer’s Day
Released of my pleasantries;
My Faith and My Culture,
For his Chivalry -

O’er to plains of Youth
Hath wrought the clouds of Rain -
O’er those fields of Disdain
Until the skies of Dusk;

Dusk yearned for Dawn
Amidst rainbows damasked of Gray -
To tears of Melancholy,
For all Eternity

But, oh, how I will revel
in their piteous expressions
of shocked envy
when they see my name--
the name of the

attention-seeking
******-****-tease-*****
sloppy-drunk
future-homeless-druggie
strung-out-overdramtic
emotionally-unstable
possessive-sad girl

in lights.
___________________
S­ound familiar?

Palms sweating, baby doll?

Feelin' guilty, sweet cheeks?

Well.

If you suspect this poem
is about you,
then it probably is.
___________________­
Moral of the story:

Never ******* a poet,
for she will surely destroy
you with her poetry.

And remember, darling--
poetry is immortal.