Man, whatever bleakness has named
You, I have never seen your face.

I imagine you rugged and more....
More than I had been for her.

I imagine she sees strength in you like
A stone on a mountaintop: loftily perched.

And your hands that have stolen my embraces,
I imagine them smoother than my calloused
Fingers,

My jealousies grow as you see in this poem,
It kills me, every verse that I imagine you....

Are you like this?
Is this the unimaginable lust she has for you,

Are your ears ringing now,
Do you even acknowledge me as her man?

Tell me, tell me if you held her through death,
Did she cry herself to sleep in your arms?

When you see your destiny,
Is she among the constellations you foretell?

I am sure you are quite the lover,
You who now kiss the woman I had before,

You who hold her in adoration,
Perhaps you know why I wanted to live,

Because you have stolen all good from me,
All the hope I had from this verse,

In petrification of my soul
I confess to you I am a broken man.

What divine intervention will seek you out?
Will karma let you be as happy as I was?

In a myriad of solemn thoughts,
I am at a loss for the wrath I hope vengeance has for you.

But treat her well,
Kiss her methodically and with purpose,

And maybe she will show her angelic eyes
Which promise forever, quietly whispering:

I will be here with you always,
So that when the promise has penetrated you,

The divinity you feel at the comfort of her
Lifetime of promised cherishing,

Maybe she will find something else
In another promise of another soul,

Only this thought eases the heavy bitterness
Left in my procession of days.

For now move forward,
Because I am paralysed,

And to the other man,
The burden of me writing this poem.

Emptying memory:
        The sun does not block out
The stars,
        The soul did not absorb them
The water vanishes the fire,
       Petrified light,
Executed dust of old flesh
      In a tomb of earthly thoughts;
The Sol centrally corners the eye,
     Blinded by the word
In a litany of days,
     Crushed hopes fall on nocturnal
Flesh,
     Old as Cain and Abel
As smooth as assassin pagans,
        Kissing the eclipses
In a fit of rage on a wounded bird,
     Theatre of peoples
In a cosmic garden
     Impaling moons
And guillotining the planets,
      Eating fire on burning lips,
A thirst for living water
     And a wisp of gentle air,
A swarm of deities with
Overgrown origins in a circus
        Of faithful,
    The sanctum was exploded
With idealistic dogs licking
     Their own *****,
The amphitheater of man
     Stained with repetitive slow thoughts,
Drunk with light
Hidden in shadows.

I do not feel alive so much as when
I am Dedpoet. I do not suffer as my
Alter ego, but I do suffer as a simple
Living being. I do not feel alive as a
Christian, or even a Muslim, or at times
When I am a Pagan. If my name were
Edgar Allan Poe, I would still feel
The sufferings, but not so much alive.
Today I suffer from something deeper,
And being alive is part of the dilemma.

This suffering comes and has no explanation,
It is a sorrow so deep that I feel it was
With me alone in the womb. Where is the
Excitement of life? Where is the fulfilled
Feeling of completed goals? Is it because
I have nothing, so nothing comes
Full circle and becomes a reason?
My depression comes from everywhere,
Like four winds of sorrow spinning
A compass. If I was shot down and taken
From this place, my suffering would
Still be the same, if I came back
Reincarnated I would feel this abyss
Even only in a different body.

I look at the pain of a dying man,
He says goodbye and rights what he can
To those he wronged, But I can find
No redemptive cure for this emptied
Hole inside myself, I am simply in depression.

I always believed a higher power would
Give me a miracle cure for this suffering,
But one's belief is merely the precursor
To death and another life when the suffering
Would end in the divine promise, which is
To say we must be here to suffer and believe
The next life will he a better one. I look at the stars
And wonder about light and dark,
But I have no epiphany, today I am depressed,
Simply and utterly, no matter what happens,
Today is what I feel.

Today it rains like never before,
It wears grace and pain;
It feels like a woman.

The cruel abyss of my cavernous
Heart wears violent black flora
In the furrow of my deep grief.

On this day no one has asked for me,
I pray to God and ask forgiveness
For how little I have died.

This mortal crusade that fasts on emotion,
It wears me like a fleece of flesh
That weeps softly at the soliloquy of me.

I wish I could beat on all the doors
And find good behind anyone,
But I soak in a puddle of self pity.

Destiny has seen to my downfall,
The backwash of suffering welling
Into my soul, today it rains as never before.

1.You shall not confine beauty, that which is in the eye of the poet charged to show it to the world.

2.There is no poetry better than the other, although your words are different you all bear witness to the soul's confession.

3. You will write freely not to incite popularity but to give truth to this art.

4. You shall never use poetry as self vanity but for exploring the spirituality within each other.

5. You will not be confined to the repetition that you have used in poetry, poetry is an exploration of the self, therefore the words are too an evolution of discovery.

6. The words will be therapeutic and truthful to the self so that you can see the truth in the world to bring about the compassion within.

7. You will bleed your self onto paper and very word will be yours for everyone else, there is no poetry without others to read it.

8. The words shall be as a confession that does not inspire sorrowful outlooks, but it shall inspire into action those who knew no better than before your suffering.

9. Being true to yourself first and foremost is an absolute; if you lie to yourself then how can one be a true person, much less a true poet?

10. Each poem will be a gift to the world, but it will never be greater than your dream and will always be inferior to the most marvelous of dreams which is the art of poetry itself.

To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.

And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.

But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.

Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.

Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.

It is better not to go to Eden
Empty handed, solemnized,
Among the mutilated people.

Even among first fruits, now withered,
The words of poets with their
Pompous thoughts and politics,
They must have thought themselves
Great for survival of the flood,
Groaning at lesser poets in their eyes.

The ominous black thoughts,
They have worded destruction on
To the new poets whom might steal
Their light in a ghostly place,
So that they do not return and we
Are stuck with the same moderation
While falling under an evil spell
Of repetitive words mixed with
Bitter allusions.

When the site turns to "goodbye"
Instead of hello, inside an old enclosure
Creaking with the same ole and their
Followers hoping to be hearted by
Mediocrity and sleepy eyes,
We all lose a little of what this place
Was.

And I will enter the poem hated,
Earning respect the way it should be,
With my words that cannot judge,
With my hearts that have eyes and
Have read your poem,
I will humm along the spider's webs
And see if I can see the hope and reason
Of why any of you write these
Wonderful confessionals.

In the relentless nature of renewal,
The crying of new born poets,
For what is given and taken
In the words of you ,
I will be here,
Renovated alters for your sacrifice,
I will ring the bells
With fluctuating tones,
The affectionate words of your sorrow,
By the light of your dramatic hearts,
There is a poet who does not take sides,
I am here to read and enjoy,
Either in the light or the dark,
The intimate poetry that is you.

Liquid days when the morning
Mist whispers and the woman's
Touch softens in bed under
The pelting romance of raindrops.

Moist Earth of liquid hearts, when
The solitude melts away from
The the tumbles grey and the
Light flashes across the myriad
Of sky tirelessly crackles and lifts
One out of the depression.

Steaming Earth, when the body
Is melting like clay in summer's
Tears, when two become one in
The moist of the Rivers, water turns
Into life and the soul is freed
In youth.

Wet Earth when the Angel's tears
Cry for their knowingness,
Who wish to make the Fall
And bathe in the love of man,
Petrification of the motivated as
The tears flow down un-sinning .

Rain upon the Earth,
Like a woman in her bath,
The stress falling away with
Each droplet,
The edification of her day,
The supplication of living water,
Up on the squall we dance
In thought ,inciting the flood
Within a liquidised existence.

a deluge,
         a flood,
water flows
          as a seedling
drowns itself in a word
inaudible            deaf
the fertile ages like a promiscuous fire
         buried with flames
passion                 bound to the world
by passion            it is also released

           man the animal
           speech craft of a deserted tongue
filtered                 thoughts retreat
         to fallen realities
sorrowing confusion revolves
      around the charred light
burn the natural flower
      let loose the animal craving
drink of the chalice
from the fictitious mind
         all the world on fire

animalistic morality
      the flame circles
the weeping lion
amidst the penumbras skin
     they weep for the magnetic night
burning inside a compassionate luminosity

        man/animal
a surge of atonements
for the rage inside us

Hair unpinned,
Half smile,
More like a half moon
That shrugs off the day.

Arm at your side,
Like an angry mother,
Glued eyes to towards
Me and your presence
Exploded into my memory,
Subliminal walk skywise rises.

The weary fall
Through which you see the world,
The weary rose you were
As your presence burns through
The cold.

The portrait of your figure
As your memory
Burns the epitaph of your presence
Into the windows of the soul.