No matter how or what you write
A myth, a melodrama or a mystery,
About your life or a dreadful night
In a poem, a song or a short story.

Write in a manner to evoke pathos
And in matter to mirror a tragedy,
Establish a sincere sense of ethos
Whether you write a satire or a comedy.

Either try to provoke a hearty laughter
Or to elicit a feeling of warm sorrow,
Steer them stealthily to a myth buster
Or promise them of a better tomorrow.

Write an epic, an elegy or a pastoral
With a sublime, visionary imagination,
A ballad, an ode or even a doggerel
Of a dramatic event or a silly situation.

Perceive the pulse and tone of the people,
The image, the rhythm and the sound,
The habit, custom, creed and the foible,
Develop the theme with metaphors abound.

The essence of life belongs to poetry,
It is an ever enriching avocation
Where purity of love overcomes bigotry
Where reality juxtaposes with imagination.

A cold case of reality.
Grasping for truth, hands barely touching an answer.
Holding on to past thoughts
Tightening their meanings and their occurrence.
Forcing yourself to focus on the now.
Breathing in,
breathing out.
Letting it all out.
But shouldn’t you let it all in?
What’s the difference?
How can you tell?
Have I become numb?
I’m numb to any understanding of it.
Gentle, easy conversation.
How can I make it in presentation?
What’s the easiest way to stay focused?
My mind wanders and my heart leaks emotion.
It bottles up and you just have to let it all out.
Let it all in.
Let it all out?
Let it begin.
Just let me be me.
Let me be free from all this hiding-
this danger-
this confusion.
This different me.

It’s numb.

Happiness, What creates it? what is happiness? for some, happiness is money, wealth. Others, happiness is life itself. Others find it fulfilling a purpose. Purpose? Is there really such a thing? a slave to be bound to a singular entity, for eternity to come. Are we all slaves? feeding the machine that is called life, is there reason behind it? I know my purpose, to bring happiness to people. Solipsism, the idea, that the world. only a picture, of a subconscious artist slaving away at his canvas The artist, his world. the one he creates, The one he sees. the one where he exists. And if there is even, even the slightest amount of truth. Behind the Artists mind. You Are The Most Beautiful Thing I Could Perceive.

Most trivial 20 moments
https://youtu.be/MmdyqeM_FLM

How much more is left?
How much more is left in me?
Only God knows the answer to one;
I am the sole possessor of the other.

Reader, I ask you this:
Which is most important?

i practice pulling my bones, at the joints,
little bones out of bigger bones
i practice breaking my knuckles
pulling muscles
pitching forward onto dead earth.

i practice getting myself out of scrapes
even if it leaves me a little less whole
as a person. a ****** laughing mess.
i practice hurtling towards the sun,

i throw myself at you. quickly,
you recoil. you sputter. you spit.
we are flames,
burning out.
we are flames.

She drew on her hands
Pictures I didn't understand
She wrote on her hands
Pieces that didn't make sense
But to her, skin was her canvas
Her ink flowed better
Then ever on paper
She put her thoughts on her hand
Yet I never understand