Perhaps poetry itself invented love, if it didn’t
poetry took advantage of love, only to get noticed.
Now at least I’ve got something to do, just writing
poems about the love I yearn and have not yet
experienced. Troublesome.
(Knowledge Variable)

If the future has no hope, trust me, the
present will not escape any bitterness
that life throws this way. As nothing
that cause the heart no stronger pain
than the mute silence from one’s lover,
that all of life’s hope is rested upon, in
such holy trust. One’s hope and one’s
despair, is rendered with one, no other
time or moment, where one’s destiny
is shown so strongly, than it’s shined
in one’s romantic life.  
(knowledge variable)

When the truth blows, it kills all the liars
in a explosive way, it dents history, as it
should. Left for all future eyes, as it reads
into the past. Potent and poetic, hopefully.

It’s generally the one you let go, that one
is meant for. Perhaps when memories turn
to golden smiles, to what if’s. Do not render
to poetry as compensation, but it’s alright
to write tears of self-resentment in poetry.
Though it’s cliche to start romance in one
glance, but the eyes are in search and
leaning inwards, feeling one’s breathing,
souls wrestles, intertwined in one kiss.
However overused the glance is, the strongest
love always starts somewhere, it’s the same
from the greatest heartbreaks. And poetry
knows who deserves love and heartbreak.
With the romantics chasing the feelings.
As perhaps life is nothing but a dream and
each poems is supposed to ease each pain,
but we write like how we dream.
(knowledge variable)

Laymen, I do not hate you, I just wish
not to be like you, rather die of passion
than boredom, blended with the rest.
I’m in too deep. Thou Shall not steal,
Thou Shall not squeal the secrets, Thou
Shall not ****, rub me the wrong way,
Laymen, I will, Thou Shall not cheat,
Thou Shall not born mystic, one has to
work for it. Civilization will not reach
perfection, until the last philosopher stone
has fallen on the last sinner. Be concerned
of not period of humanity, past, present
or future, always be focused on this current
life, the intensity and rawness of it all.
Laymen, it is fate, I wish not to be like you,
there is no other greater sin to any culture
than ignorance in action and trust me,
and it has not relation to economic poverty
when it comes to war.  
(knowledge variable)

Oh poet, my dream is to witness you
to fall in love, that you’re consumed so
much love, that’s at the point of madness,
and you forget to write another poem.
- knowledge variable

Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)
- Knowledge Variable

So, I’ve stepped beyond the curtains,
seeing blood and wrath, now it’s time
to change my soul, transcendent
features, illumination. Wishing death
upon me, I stared at destiny and now
they wish to take my life away

Under silver moonlight, for the purpose of
romance as the lovers see the stars as only
of windows to Heaven. And when they kiss,
Heaven enters their souls and become not
connected with Heaven, but with each other,
as they make love, they totally become intertwined
and every poet lives in jealous.

Two worlds collide in one single moment
when two give into their love, binded and
powerless to avoid such holy power. Give
a slight laugh, to learning that it could
happen outside Heaven. Unlocking hearts
and speaking it’s language. Outside of
poetry, forgetting the melancholy life in
a loud roar towards to neolife, retreating
that breathe by leaning in for a kiss as
opening gates to the souls to meet and
make love. To live alone, outcast to this
world where the rest are sharing, blind to
real love that poetry had attempt to teach
them, without asking for anything in return.
Where the lovers gestures, emotions,
thoughts and private world, spark such
great works of poetry, that will get made by
active Muses, surely humanity will not ignore,
though I’m sure they will. Real love to find
and to know, is rarer than finding myth in
reality. Behind closed doors of minds in marriage,
sing songs unwillingly, of what’s different
to the veils they dress in.    
(knowledge variable)