Let me tell you once more about the first 24,
The lackadaisical blossom of a devilish spore,
The immemorial black of hearts lacklustre and cold,
The sensual grimace of an ordinary soul,
The last ember of coal within a beauty unknown,
The voluptuous shape of effeminate stone,
The incantation of the sun giving birth to the dawn,
An insomniac’s battle against the army of the morn,  
The poetic holocaust of a mind tortured and torn,
The endogenous torment of thoughts when a man is alone,
The sorrow of kings after ascending the throne,
The desolation of spirits failing to protect their own,
The pessimism of those afraid of leaving their zone,
The transparent mist in the eyes of those who intellectually mourn,
A simple metaphor for you to interpret and me to know,
All that and more, simply the first 24.

Its the deepest secret i hold, it is the key to my soul,
It is my rise and my fall, the darkest story ever told,
Add a beautiful 3 and my spirit is whole.
A divine metaphor.
Under a tree of sycamore,
A new story began called the first 24.

The accumulation of all the hate that we love to condone,
But also the strength we unearth when scares galore,
The falsely euphoric solitude of those who do not implore,
A dementia that is cause by the degradation of truth,
The delusion of humans, trying to hold on to their youth,
The illusion of art when sanity is loose,
The ambitions of an addicts fighting, escaping abuse,
It’s the elixir of life for those who denied unethical truce,
Its the umbilical cord by which mental growth is produced,
It’s the force within those who fight without an excuse,  
Its fluorescence of essence, its the efflorescence of spruce,
The greed of adolescence, asphyxiating your roots.

Aren’t we tired of writing
About love? How many words
Have gone wasted as we try
To conjure her upon this
Living page?
We have sat perched
Like random  birds
On our cozy,
Sad chairs; our heads
Hung like overripe fruit
Upon a hanging vine;
There is dust thick
As silt on the edges
Of our memories;
The words our ancestors
Spat with the hope
Of summoning  her
now filter to our
Hidden mind like
So many fireflies on
A too dark night.
We search for meaning
And curse our hearts for
Answers that we never find.
We turn to hieroglyphs
On the worn edges of
A papyrus; indecipherable
Cuneiform etched into
The walls of caves with
Primitive stones.
One day, there will be a
Cure for all maladies;
On that day love will
Still not be defined

here, we do not talk about the mistakes.
we do not bring them to the light,
we let them sit inside our dark places,
let them fester and rot; eventually,
we let them **** us.
it’s only a matter of time, you see.
but we never speak of them.

the glint of
your knife could pierce
through my
heart
without even making contact with my skin.
the swiftness,
your oddly serene manner,
the sheer
mystery,
it all draws me closer to
you.

-love comes in many forms