GEM💎
  I speculate your beauty in these world
With this splendour isn't of blood
For I couldn't identify who's nameplate own
For which your smiling face is but a rare gem 💎

When you speak, thousand of  aid ⛑️, added up to my den
For which caused me,me of all people
Spate because Iwas in gaze
Your face are fireflies which flew around my pen 🖊️
Glittering,how so bright in the darkness
Your heart I see, it's unsaken Star ⭐✨
        
Well I don't think 💬 more to fetch
Since I really ****** fight through my dream
Dragging all my soul,this maybe the only reason I get with thee
And I know you, would show up
Since you and I need one soul

You've get this splendour bodybuilding
And it's very splashy to everyone
For it's like a star to every wondering bark
What could a man speculate about an angel
Who showed in my books,my dream,when I take a look at the summer's faces and even in the mid night 🌃,when it's dark 🌑,you shine.
    
This has been what I've long wait for
For which I left for a journey which I could not noted an headline for
I went to Sea, drowning at the waves
But not did I see but only the image of yours
What I desire for
When though, I've shun from the sea to the sky,
Looking at the galaxy, nothing amoung your part I do see
Natural you are ,how are you
If be it,what and many years
That had passed without you without you and I been loved
It is but a waste in this world 🌎

Allow me your love,to serve as a wheel of change
In my life,I wish a change
If your love could effect
You and I should be singular
I shall build you a spaza in my heart.

Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.

When I pick up my pen
        She comes first.
When I land on the dust
         I am a stranger!