A Smart romantic knows, that the heart hardens
when it’s being fed off from fantasies. And the
void isn’t punishment of sins, perhaps it’s directed
to the ignorance of man. It’s agony to feel defective
at all times. In trickling and laughing dust, is where
our measure is, a thousand years to live, when one
meets their lover and immortality is blessed upon
when the two go on, deeper and become illuminated
by their own love. (Who's the killer, me or you?)

A memorable lover gives nostalgia, a melodic shape,
and only if you could forward the images to exterior,
everywhere you walk would turn into songs of love.
And existence itself could benefit from, knowing that
real is still reachable. That craving, the emotional
awakening, even in the mind’s intellect knows, the
memories of this pastime, gesture beyond the heart
of poetry and it’s transcends everything human. A
peculiar largeness to one’s whole essence. This engagement
of one’s own past, like it’s said, that real and pure love
is there, using this present thread of moments, parents
one’s own future. And if that real love that poetry
speaks about in such sinless grace does not exist,
I don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid.
Her, provides such a strong faith, to which poetry had
always failed in, that the love of soulmates can provide
is there and in this world, to be honest, I wouldn’t
be able to express it anyway, I’ll be pulled forward to
experience it and has left me with reason and meaning
to be alive. (Doesn’t being burnt, leave such a bitterness
to one’s life, that drips and veils everyone a certain
distrust?)  
- knowledge variable

Lover, the world can be so cruel, throw your
heart to me and I’ll place in my poetry, the
beauty of it, will spread in the same way that
paint does on it’s selected canvas. Only surviving
the hardship can soften any inner-world, drums
beat to the dramatic cello’s, stories for writers,
the arts will pay homage, like those stone
and marble statues rise in your honour.
As you in gracious ways had surpassed in grandeur
The world has no exceptions, beside for lovers
out of poetry and walking on this Earths
surface with purpose, as thy Angels sings.
Because society whose mundane, throws stones,
as the lovers find diamonds and place them
back on life’s shrine. Why should I be afraid to
die? I belong to you.
(Knowledge Variable)

(When in love, every poem will be
the same. Sit back, light a spliff of
romance. I smile only for a woman
who surpasses my entire being. As
for the others, picture me hanging
out the window, light to the middle
finger. I’ve got no love for you.The
mystics dont die, we just multiply.
I'll see you at the crossroads. What
happens at judgement day?)

It will take your heart and consume it,
stealing your breath away, leaning in
to kiss one another, the wait leading
to this moment will be long, the memory
looking back, short and nostalgic. It
will beat you down, revelling all truths.
As we before we die, somehow, the love
will hold our hands and let us fully live.
It won’t be expressed in poetry or in
any other literature. It must be experience.
The love will invent one another, between
two soulmates, furthering more, surpassing
our very essence, our entire being.
Living now, better than our pasts, as it
parents our future. You’ll never live one
moment without the other, the love won’t
allow it. Neither no muse, or no God,
Will permit it.  It simply doesn’t happen, if
it’s true. Few will ever see this love, rare are the
ones that will ever experience this real
love, that all poets are behind in. speaking truth
to conscious reality, revealing always, what
lays bare naked in the subconscious.
If it doesn’t burst your soul into stars,
don’t follow through on them,
in spite of everything at veil-normal,
don’t do it. Unless, they tear that mask of
yours, undress your veiled-persona,
opens your mind - don’t do it. If you never
think about them, hunched over, alone,
not a single thought. It’s not them.
Love is tender, touching holiness, bringing
out something, nearly perfect in you. Do it.
The world has plenty of normal in it.
Love is something, in private worlds, inside
your inner-world, your thoughts, your heart,
your something, an act of revolution. Revolting
against everything in your life. Most of all,
love belongs to everyone, but when two are
in love, love belongs only to them and no-one
else. Despite of everyone else. Love isn’t
something people work towards, work together,
luck of the draw or anything like that. Love
can’t be learnt in poetry, novels, any sentimental
art. It’s more than a act or experience. When
it happens, you burst stronger and brighter
than any known supernova, you’ll know it.
And land in a place that all our muses live in.
You’ll be center of envy from poets, romantics,
as friends and family turn to you and your lover,
‘Why can’t we be like that?’  
(Knowledge Variable)

When thy love speaks the truth, she’s creating
reality around. A place for freedom, where I
can develop into my original character and move
freely in that world. Shattering everything that
I had whispered to myself and trusted to her.
(For all my life, I had been poor. Not only it
provides reason to go deep into addiction,
it also suffocates you while you’re clean. I had to
work in and out of poetry to her glittering eyes
to gaze upon me.)

Silence is the friend of lying, weeping silence
upon deafening ears. Poet, write, writing as
if humanity’s life depends on it, as much as
your own soul. Pull yourself into a frame, not
soley of creative genius, but one knowing
that one day, you’ll spark the mind of the one
who changes the shifting patterns to this turning world.
(Love me, I want to hold you in the morning,
as much as wanting to hold you during the night.)

Poetry, I have a life to live. Let me not
be swallowed in by you poetry, let not
my either, labyrinth, my mystique, or
my veil or parts of my character go in
to your fog poetry. There is more to life
than to lay down and read you poetry.
Regardless how raw or immense, or
how much I could benefit from. I have
a life to live. I just want to live. At
least as I live in solitude, you poetry
eases the pain I feel. I’ll give you that.
I’ll give you that poetry.

The only person I seek to be accepted by,
is thy lover. Until then, I’ll do my best, to
accept myself. Conscious and waking in this
reality, we all contribute to, unconscious of
it or not. The poppy’s break from sealed
cases. Muse, what period of mankind
is this? It feels like almost a crime, to talk
about true love, where everything seems
to be based at aesthetic judgment, in
layman's terms, ‘face-value’. Will I quit?
They’re labelled me a major threat. Can
remind people what society has made
them forget.