As I view my world
I stood from a far distance
Left to my unused Wisdom
With an open mind
Accessing the great treasure of this
Poetic picture
It worth is unknown
Clerify with deep peace
Which clear sorrow and give inner joy
Never the less I gain wisdom
Each time I view my poetic picture


Each time I view my poetic picture
Grace is made available
Like the blue sky mixed with white and gray clouds
Dew locating it resting place
As I allocate myself terms to it
Fruitful tresses beautify with drip of water
As it dirp down on green grass's
Finding it way on earth
Watering the earth
I could feel the air
powered with purity
The enrolling sound of each bird
Made substantial harmony
The sun rise
Titled with glorious ability
Edifying the field with enrich satisfaction
Each time I view my poetic picture


Each time I view my poetic picture
My poetic picture could be
Me, you, man, woman, words
Sure as I gain wisdom from it.
My poetic picture is the voice that address me in different picase for the moment of reality, existence and truth

Wisdom is profitable to direct
If I may ask
What is your poetic picture?

She brightens up the darkest streets with her radiating glow.
She carries an appearance that’s hard to miss.
She‘s there whether people pay attention to her or not.
Her appearance may change but she is still the same.
In times she’s whole, she’s magnificent !
Yet we still don’t know what she hides on the other side.
In times she isn’t fully herself, her worth does not lessen.
She’s just as beautiful in two different ways whether she sees that herself or not.
Everyone else will only the parts of her she reveals.
Not everyone acknowledges her presence.
But there are some, who stops to do so.

busy contemplating
when one should be taking responsibility,
accountability for what has been said
and done.
with you,
i am me
i throw away all of my mistakes
worries, doubts, regrets
when i think of you
i stop everything
to sit and reminisce
your handsome face
the warmth of your body
something i held close to me, at some point
i wish i would’ve
cupped your face
pull you into me
and feel your rosy lips
brush up against mine.
i would trade the world
for another day
just me and you
facing each other
we would take a deep breath
and let the words escape
after all is said
and done
we will embrace each other
cling onto each other
like a magnet would
or like an innocent child,
holding onto momma’s hand.

I’m fine I have my pen and book .

The chase, sadly the blurr,
To say it eluded them would mare the reality.
Some had it in the morning, lost it at night.
Some begged for it in the day, but found it at night.
It was only a mirage never to behold for some.
While some never saw it as the chase.

The chase, the dream, the purpose.
They all chase.
Some like a wild dog.
Some like a gentle breeze.
And, some like a corny tortoise.
All chasing for that dream, that purpose, that chase.

The beauty of the chase.
Some found their souls.
A beckoning in reckoning.
A chase with grace, a sweet chase, a glorious chase.
The end is not certain from the day but not at night.
The sky holds sits for their beginnings at the right time.

The damning of the chase.
Some lost their souls, some found their souls in other souls, while some forgot the chase.
The chase then became the chaser.
What a travesty of reality?
An irony of reality, the chase would put it. Aah! Aah!! Aah!!!

You see the chase, you see the norm. Everyone is chasing something.
Though some chases nothing in something;
It's a race everyone is saddled to run.
The chase, the race, the something, the nothing; you had better chase.

The Chase, The Dream, The Purpose

It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)