I am your poem.
From that mountain hole
Too many pains left
And from the island of the vexation
A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made a missiles
I was fabricated just below your heart
And I am the part of it
Just by planting a tree farm
Trouble dirts your hands
I was penned from composition of roughness
And I am the stanzza of it
Thunder thrown out of your eyes
They are more expensive than pearls
Drinking nano water
I was masterminded
And I am the Masterpiece of it
The debt too scared by itself
Searching for fertilizer tissue
Selling the blood of your own
I was painted from the words of penalty
And I am the same book of it
Momma ! I'm not a poetess
I am your poetry ....
Everytime that the lustrous moon's visage apply
as how the stars that glimmering divided in the sky
waiting to perceive a new chapter of tragical book,
that she always utter while descending her tears—
When she's sensing at the antiquated photographs,
titled by their names with date and sugary caption
especially those blessed-satisfactory representation.
She poisoned her mind that he's a gentle saviour
as how he grasps her hands when she fell before,
She reminiscence when he enunciate the word hello,
that gave color to her life but he just left her alone.
She severed her wrist to release her poorly feelings
and filled a pen with her blood that she use to write
her unheard emotions and questions into a paper;
Is it bad if I look to our immemorial representation?
Is it bad if I believe that you're a good-hearted person?
Is it bad if I verbalize your splendiferous sanction?
Is it bad if I cut my wrist to impoverish my emotion?
Is it bad if I wear happy mask to hide my impression?
Is it bad if I didn't fight our love for your satisfaction?
Is it bad if I still love you without any hesitation?
Is it bad if I want you to be yours without limitation?
She asked using literary art from her fragile heart—
as a glass that downward-sloping from the paradise,
Moving swiftly with air, think through being escaped
but directly goes to the pits and broke into pieces.
Sunlights reverberate his faded shades of love for her
make her to reckon his spoken metaphors anywhere,
that slowly killing her willingness to symphathize life,
due of his falsity phrases that stabbed her as a knife.
In a city of excruciating love,
where there's a moon
that shining bright for it's darkness
but that darkness didn't want
to be guarded by the moon's bloom.
And there's a sun that keep in rising
every morning in the eastern part
and falling— in love
every night in the western part
for the sake of her reverse.
To bloom for it's obligations
that never would be the sun.
because both of them are created
to make a day and night,
keep going and tight.
Not to meet each other,
not to be together.
I found a treasure box that filled with dusks
that doesn't have a golds or diamonds on it,
but got a simple antiquated photographs
that displayed what occurred on my past life.
The rainbow by refraction of the sun's rays
the times that there's no great challenges
positivity is just living at heart of my personify—
illusory of hope's beauty can make me satisfy.
The star that origin from the southeastern part
the vis-à-vis of waking up and talk to my friends,
counting one to ten while my eyes are closed
seeking their wonderful visages with a curve.
Those flowers in the yard that starts to bloom,
taking it and say he loves me or he loves me not
while eating some soil and collecting the petals,
marked a colourful stains on my vesture.
The moon's gloom that guide me to my home
after a almost a day of playing out-of-door,
and everything will start again tomorrow
but all of what happened is now a part of yore.
I've read all of my notifications
answered all my quiet messages
Quipped and prosed, some replies
yicked and yacked, and had
laughter, cry's, and sighs
Bounced, from hither to yon
words flitted, where to there
yet here, and never gone
Responded too, new and old creations
words and lines from heart, and soul
filling all, my poetic, expectations
Pay the critics, not a mind
ignore the jeers, the jibes
keep to your craft, an artist
and to your heart, subscribe
Lines and rows, constructed
not fabricated, paper walls
you'll see, not taught, or learned
an answering spiritual, the call
Lightning down from heaven
and demons fire, duck, and weave
understanding skill, and finer make
are things, you know, perceive
Sing the light, and dark fantastic
tread where saints and angels fear
excise, the demons low, and high
for you're, a poetic engineer
Not a simple calling
not for the faint of heart
biting lip, on mental slips
no horse before the cart
A tiny divination
like lightning in the sun
striking and exciting
battle not lost, but won
just like a moth to flame
not sure of the outcome
but always, in the game
Spirits will rise
to the occasion
when, they hear the call
with wordy procreation
we've seen, and done