Turn me into a metaphor
Any metaphor, I don't care which one
Either I'm the raging storm or the silhoutte against the moon
I'm the sunshine on your wet hair or the rain drowing you
I don't ask for your love
Just make me into a literary device
Pen me on paper
That is the only way I'll feel alive
When your words caress my presence even if your hands don't
When I will be immortalized in your works
I don't care if you stay with me for eternity or let me go
I want you to remember me and construct me into prose
Which maybe people will recall
And feel something, anything at all
I want you to use me to create that warmth
That sensation that the lonely strive for
So break my heart
Use my pieces to scratch out words
Use my blood to ink them into sheets
I don't care what you do to me
Just turn me into a ******* metaphor
And store me in your poetry

my picket fence
is ablaze
the white paint
begins to flake
as the fire
of my thoughts
uses its flame
to burn me down
plank by plank
theres nothing left
nothing left to hide
there's the burnt house
that I am
doomed from a previous fire
I could not contain

Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing ****** minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after ******* sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.

I noticed devices,
the signs used in books to foreshadow
to hint at the written future
and at what is ahead to come

like our strides while we walked
or the difference in our shadows
that hints at our now-passed future
and at what has already come

it has been six months now
half a year since we have grown apart
and I'm not asking for you back
to be as close as we had come

just please think about me
was I important to you at all
if you left me as fast as you did
even as close as we had come?

just please think about us
and I'm still not asking for you back
it's just something to think of
if you have time left for me, love

To be in pursuit in my own destiny, to break away
from my dreams. Proclaiming my inner world as
my state. Land walked over. Vagabond. Lusting
for experience. Haunting now. Haunting never.
I’m breaking the narrative of society and made
something of myself. Poetry that I write, is a
different story. Truth be told, its in order to grab
attention from thy lover.
(knowledge variable)

Grief is nothing until we reach it. Though we know, death is
always a definite, no matter what our inner world declares,
presents to us or it forms us. Dislocating us from the world
and providing less meaning, fading away, innocence loses
as the notion of expectations leaves us. Rendering to deal
with reality, alone.
(knowledge variable)

well here it is:

as a good-hearted crazy boy as I am
I can be fixed only by a woman
on the last gear of speed
like a herd of mustangs in gallop
to the abyss or to eternity

a woman who dedicates me poems of hate
in which I'm the last provincial old man
the princess can fall in love with
but actually the joy is shaking whitin
any time she feels me arround

a woman dressed only in swords of Toledo
who can sing on a sword like Mariza
making me climb on the walls
like on the Chinese Wall on the moon

a woman that resists any melalcoholical drubbing
on rithmes of sirtaki with Zorba the Greek
with her heart blowned out of her mind
carelessly throwned like underwear through  the room

a long-time woman to lead my way
and night in sleep and life in death
and my god in all its demons of beauty
with the most innocent baby smile

a woman that on the last outpost of her ******
like a wild goddess will laugh and explode the night
as if as if ordering
the happiest end of the world

Loving, without being loved. Realizing oneself, with poetry.
Solitude without wanting it. Yearning for more in intimacy.
Private conversation in one’s inner-world. Learning from
dead poets. Hopeless and envious. Perfect without being
noticed. Throwing one’s love game. Soulmate invigorates
and charges one soul. Poems written, to be noticed. Knowing
how to love, without poetry teaching. To have that contentment,
that meaning, that reason to both live and die for. Two must
be brave enough to jump into one’s other private world,
while the process destroys everything that they had worked
for. The experience makes up for poetry lacks and the life
lived of being hopeless, isn’t romanticizing as it’s portrayed.
(knowledge variable)

place your head on my lap, love
and I'll read you Baudelaire
you'll drink wine on the grass
my fingers dancing through your hair

your eyes could never betray
the feelings that you hold
they whisper to me thoughts
of what we've left untold

I want to bathe in your golden warmth
drink the elixir of your lips
please allow our love to flourish
if only in the wilds of our scripts

your eyes, your lips, your words
slake my growing thirst
while my very soul sails forward
the seas of your attraction submerse

so lay down with me, my love
and I'll read you Baudelaire
my passion for you
is found everywhere