A trained poet, knows that falling in
love in their life, devalues poetry itself,
no-longer motivated to read in their
own search for love. Sonnets for beauty,
lines to express emotions, nothing can
replace the touches and glances, from
a smiling lover.

Walking body, talking head, living dead,
questioning everything, like the floor
that civilization stands on. Prospects,
weight and gold, wondering why there’s
no virgins aren’t being sacrificed, angels
and demons wrestle inside. Stand sparks,
rebel with a cause, running with scissors
inside my soul and going to a ghetto
near you. Poetry banging more than street
fame, lyrics leaving one spellbound in
new and profound wisdom. Working towards
my innermost secrets. Shivering. Will I
self-destruct or grow within self-awakening?

A good lover, is a brief moment in time. The perfect
one, is cut off in this life, because once sparked.
Like a star, enslaved chains. Always on the chase.
Maybe I’m naive on my find for love. At least in
the process I found poetry, to comfort my bitter
and warm tears, I always end up, alone while
I cry. And if the dead could talk, I wonder what
they’ll be screaming about? Soulmates shouldn't
be in some novel, parallel universe, dreams
or wishes. They all belong in each other’s life,
instantly devaluing poetry and any romantic art.
In a world where affection is constant and growing,
with every-sound, just another love song in ode
and homage. Wake up, you don’t have to run,
you don’t hide, just cave in

Poetry, death isn’t the end. A good poem
will stain the minds of those who read it.
Like a the perfect lover who  had left,
memory is consumed by them, while
experiencing regret now. Leading one
to the mysterious rites and rituals (I
got comrades, murdered and resurrected).
Enigmatic mystic, craving only touch - again.
Not something, where poetry nor mysticism
could ever provide. Rebirth

At times - the mystics eat the stars
and burst like supernovas. Becoming
wisdom itself. At times - the poets find
love and forget about poetry. At times,
the philosopher falls into death, begins
to calm their running thoughts and rest.
At times, we have to let them. Life is
only worth living, when one does live.

Let me be absorbed in art,
nothing else but art, if I
cannot fall into love and
to be loved. Let me do
nothing but create art.

Mystic knowledge, strangely exhilarated my very essence,
providing a sense of strength to depart from this life I know
and where I know those. Where at least myself, I know for
sure, I lived in resentment and disappointment. In silence
I leave, refusing to yield to what society wants

The hazy grey sky drops snowflakes to kiss my cheeks.
He contracts the gust of winds for me.

I gingerly take my gloves off,
Stretch my fingers,
Place my hand on the cement of snow.
He mists my hair with a crown of raindrops.

Cold snowflakes chill my bones.
His chilling love boils my blood.
My lungs cake with frost.
He pushes the sun to melt his touch.

His warm melancholy tears drop on my eyelashes.
My breath vanishes my handprint.
His snowflakes nip my lips goodbye.
He yearns my love.
I feel his love.
He sees my smile and lets me go.

I have not yet pricked my finger upon the needle of a yarn spinning wheel
Nor have I bitten from a poisonous fruit
Midnight has passed and I am still in my clothes from last nights meal
And a sea witch has not made me mute.

I still have yet to kiss the lips
of a prince whose come to save me.
The last girl who did that, turned into
a frog  
But fell in love severely.  

I haven't had the chance to prove my bravery
with a sword or bow and arrow
For I am no princess, just patiently waiting,
For my one true kneeling pharaoh.

She enchanted me with a single kiss.
Never to untangle me, as such, leaving
me alone, in rendering soft moments,
self-producing romance. Yearnings given
when reading poetry and conscious of
hearing the world’s noises as love songs.