how could all these masters
of art and vision
of poetry and of prose
of love and of passion
of life and of death
create so seamlessly,
create things that matter to others?
how could they have ideas
streaming from their minds,
and translated into beautiful things
that need not ask to be noticed?
i'd like to think it was because
they worked with heart
but why is it that even if my heart is screams
with all the things i want to share
i try to paint
i try to sketch
to write
to sing little songs
they never come out quite right
or matter to anyone else?
why is it that my heart
with all its storms and whirlwinds
never seems to be enough
to create something beautiful?

It still stuns me, to this day, that there are some people out there who don't enjoy reading, who the string of words and the scent of used pages in between the covers of a book don't give them any sort of pleasure. Who despise literature and art and love. Who dislike it for the sole reasoning that society does not like it. Reading isn't about what everyone else finds pleasure in - it may not be *** or food or sleep, but it's something, and few people hold dear to it. Reading is about what you like. Not everyone else - you. People hold to belief that words, though may pleasure some people, do not do anything for the world. They do not save lives or seek justice or help secure society or regulate a country and the needs of an individual. Sure, without professions like the medical and legal and political ones, there may be no lives, at all. But without books, without art and music and passion, there would be no love, and there would be no reason to live.

He's like constellations,
A road map to forever,
And every night I count the distance,
Between here and happily-ever-after;

When I look at the stars,
I see universes of us together,
Parallels that was only ours,
And there's nothing we could not weather;

You're a Pisces and I a Virgo,
Two opposites with attraction so strong,
This love we share let us not throw,
For we're meant to be let us prove them wrong;

Light years away from now,
I hope you'll look at me the same way,
When we made our only vow,
To be together forever come what may.

@byizn

She whispered his name each
Night like a prayer waiting to be
Heard by a god she thought was
There. The way the syllables
Swirled round her tongue like an
Ancient tale she didn't know but
Felt when she heard her heart
Beat. The feel of the letters on her
Lips was like a childhood lullaby
She had heard a thousand times
But forgot the words to.
She longed for the person she had
Once known like her first name.

But what she didn't know was that
There are some things that must
Just remain forgotten.

The intensive care unit of a library
is straight down the hallway. The
hallway is connected to the Limited
Editions cabinet. The cabinet covers
the window partially. The Limited
Editions section is also referred as
the Limited Light cabinet.

What a writer is doing in the intensive care unit:

Squeezing ink out of a culture-tube.
Containing the pulse of a page.
Salvaging the last drops of ink.

Metaphor to explain that the pen of the writer
is running out of ink:

He needs to run out to save the blood of another
story.

Rhetoric to explain something as simple as the redundant fact that the writer is writing in a library:

Refilling the page with the cadence of life
and all the lives he’ll live through this chapter

Antithesis and paradoxes to enrich the narrative in
whose the writer runs out of ink (still):

Reflecting on the beauty of the discomfort.
To live you must accept to come to an end.

The following is just a series of allegorical ways in which
a lady justifies what by now has become voyeurism:

I agonize reading the line that ties your eyes together
in perfect symmetry

Your eyes are parallel to
the pages you are holding.

pulled\apart\and\back\together\get it

I install myself
into your city
that template
where I hold
my book
I see you
the words
go blurry

Every guy
holding a book
ever
o
Lord
someone
save me

Pyromaniac,

I burn for you when we touch

I am curious

We learned to love,
At an age so ripe and young,
We can't quite figure out where we belong,
Is it in the arms of an angel,
Or in the company of the devil's advocate,
And time will only tell if we're in it for the long run,
Even though we are made aware that it'll expire,
This love - this feeling shall not transpire;

We learned to love,
Through rhymes and rhythms of the heart,
Played out by strangers and friends alike,
These souls halfway across the world,
That we relate so well with yet aren't mates,
Could we possibly feel the same with so many,
Is this really what it means to be,
In love with someone you could never see;

We learned to love,
In a moment of loneliness,
Hoping that company will resolve,
And send away our inner demons,
With their tails between their legs,
Back to the depths of alone and sappy,
But the more aware we are of reality,
We soon come to realise that truth is,
We'll always be by ourselves for all eternity,
In this life, we're granted temporary company,
But in the next we might and mightn't, oh what a tragedy;

We learned to love another,
Forgetting that the one needing it most,
Is the shell that holds our soul,
And yet we wonder when another loves us,
What could possibly be the reason he does,
When all our reflections show is a mess,
A perfectly crafted beautiful chaos,
Meant only for the one bold enough to brave through,
In this life, the next and until both is laid to rest.

@byizn

Desire to go
Desire to be,
Good to you

Come, let’s go
We’ve got no place
To be, to see
Where the light takes us

Take us, mighty light
We follow blindly
We follow with purpose, but
No justification will do

Only when and where there is
no doubt, shall we be able to
find each other,
within ourselves

We can find each other
Again & again &
Get lost in the
vast emptiness
Of calamity.