Words** ,
What do you make of it?
So saccharine
So chasmic
Yet
So raw
So excruciating.
That It guzzles your heart bit by bit
Words,
What do you make of it
When you see them caper
As you see your feet in rain
Or when you witness it
Spanking scorn on people’s mind
And forcing them to spend those sleepless night,
Why so confusing are them words?
Why the scent of them arouses a writer’s heart
And becomes a cause or,
An apocalypse.
What do you make of it?
When it pushes you to the apex
Or drags you down to the burning fiasco
And you think it Is fix
Words, that makes schadenfreude
Alive,
Death scary
And life so obsessing?
The base of hopes,  
Wings of imagination
The eyes of love
A scent, of imagination
A magic
A poison
A tower so bright
Somewhere in horizon
Words,
So many yet so little
Things to say
But, words are them
What do you make of it?

You are wind,
You are fire,
The flame that burns to my creative soul.
Are you created?
Are you gifted?
Or are you just a thought?
Maybe you are magic,
The way you bring a visual to your readers with a few cleverly chosen words.
Who are you? Poetry?
I ask who? Are you?
You run through my veins,
Deep in my soul.
I live for you, in you, with you,
Just to share part of your name.
Poet, am I?
I am, poet I am and if not then poetry set me free.
For without your title my words mean nothing.
My words, not a message no more.
My words now just a mere conversation blending with society and it's normal ways.

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feeling through words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel - but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling - not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself - in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else - means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why?

Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time - and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world - unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.

It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

Bias 
Is a little ***** 
The alliteration is merely a coincidence 
But it is
Everyone has their own views 
Their own opinions
Their own perspective 
Negative or positive 
Like the moodswings of a mother in menopause 
It's still a *****
Hah just like your mother , jk
Bias is everyone 
Everyone has a bias
It's their perspective 
No matter their age, their IQ, or the amount of muscle mass on their perfectly chiseled body
They have a bias
It's rarely good 
So look out for that *****
Bias
It'll bite you in ***

Don't ever fall in love
Unless you're ready to see
The fragility of your heart
In someone else's hands.

If you fall in love,
Be prepared to expect grand gestures
And settle for a whisper
Or a sigh.

Don't expect to ever laugh again
Without a glance over your shoulder
To see if he's laughing too.

You'll be left breathless
Realizing how much harder it hurts
From someone who promised
Never to hurt you.

Everyone marvels that in love
It's hard to know where one ends
And another begins

Until one night you wake up
Gasping in the dark,
Clawing at shadows
In search of your former self.

Don't ever fall in love
Because you'll float away
Feeling safe and at peace
Before you ever realize
You're drowning.

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

It breaks my heart
                                that you're still hurting
                                and that I'm still hurting
                and those crystalline blue and greens
      have retreated into the fog, again.

Stop relying on those straight lines;
They won't guide you home at night.

A moment of clarity shrouded in dusty
                                                           white--
                    It is not light,
          but a suffocating device
come to strangle you
               *(but that's exactly what you'd like.)

I mean
      that I am trying to tame
      the wildfire in my heart
      built on the Embers from a
      domesticated bonfire
      during a winter many springs ago.
      i thought i had stamped it
                                                         out
                                                      out out
I mean
      that I am not trying to run
      i'm just trying to move
      in a different direction
      the scent of a breeze caught my nose
      and as i am a red tailed fox
                                                       i follow
I mean
      that sometimes i feel like
      my dreams are much bigger than me
      but even if i am a ladybug
      i am still as big as the
sea.

this is what my heart
                   looks like:

           it is            geometric
                                       and angular
           there are                      dark corners
                                                        a­nd sharp edges  
But sometimes in the
sunlight some of my
sides look so
bright