Dear reader, you know that we’re cursed
By our nature’s decadent thirst
At the hand of the devil
We’re drawn unto evil
But it’s boredom that’s really the worst!

Her heart
was like
an ancient book
burried deep in
the golden sand of
the forbidden tomb,
hidden in a barren desert...

He was so determined
to find that heart...
after years of hardship
He found her heart
not interested in decoding
the inscript,
he never tried to read
or understand the book,
and just kept that heart
as a trophy ...

Far away,
in another land
lived an archealogist
who through his whole life
only learnt to decode
the ancient script
only to read that book
but was coward enough
to never start the journey
so he just lived there
longing for her heart...

Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;

A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.

I’m The One,
But so are You.
It all depends
On your point of view.

I write,
You read.
I sow
The seed.

No love songs
You will get from me.
Nothing sentimental:
Bull-dropping free.

We share this world
You and I.
Together we can
Reach the sky.

Your imagination I will seek
To fire.
Whenever I can,
I will inspire.

Well, dear Viewer-Reader,
It’s time to go.
I hope you enjoyed
This “Poetry Show”.

Paul Butters

Let me tell you the story of my death:

Carving words on the bark of a tree
A poem that means life to me.
Glows through night, my soul delights!

        "Exist beyond my death, oh please...
            So I could live in bliss at least."

But they cut the tree, so mindlessly
Illegally. ****, selfishly!
In chainsaw, I was murdered.

        A massacre,
      ... a massacre of my every being!!

I'm a ghost that forgot, the best in me
Now writes relentlessly
To relive the words, once killed in greed
I found the "papers*", the poems you lead...

Then before me, is some piece of me
they killed.

I died a hero,

While I sleep,
I pray that an Ascended Master comes to me.
Just to tell me that they're there,
I just need to open my eyes truly and I'll see.

While I sleep,
I pray that my friends and family alive or dead.
Are happy where they are,
While I am happy in bed.

Before I sleep,
I'll write a poem wishing a good tomorrow for the reader.
Tomorrow you'll no longer be in another's shadow.
Tomorrow, you'll be the leader!

Sometimes a poet has to ponder upon:
substitutes
suspense
building
breaking
glueing
grooving
gazzillion
broken pieces
put back together
Love
Heart
Rhythm
pace of words

Rhythm !

Shall words be beautiful ?
Or aggressive ?

For some opponent heavy readers Lovely words just don't suffice!
Love words, cheesy romanticism and odes to beauty
turn out to be:
too easy
too light
not a delight
a psyche's cry is heard:
"Where is some drama!? For God's sake!!!"

We hear annoyed reader's comments...
"Brother, this cheesy woobadaloo, smoochy kind of poetry ain't nothing but pure ****!
An effort compared to one, two three, slight steps in muddy warm water
nothing much to do, a lurking pudding, fibble will... oh, my my
oooooohh"
no harm done
but boring
but! - there's always a - but!
some badass poetic freak
with it's head in
the clouds
tell me about Love
dear!
till
the day's tiles
are done.

"Where's some culmination!!?!!
Crime, anger, passion!!!?!!!
Terriffic twists of turmoil, sweat, deceit... !??!
At least a bit of dark matter puked on a silver platter!! Where is this abruptly amazing, abolishing lust for hedonism!!!?"*

fortune
torture
pain
lust
give me some more!
blood, thorns
screams,
tears
sweet ****!!!!  

Does beauty suffice!?!
Without duality?!
Is there a Real Poetry without
Suffering ?

Tell me poets!!
Is there a Poetry- Divine without ugliness ?!? of words, energy, meanings without a constant fight!?
inner dialogue
characters
opposition

HAIKU!?!

The truth is-
    she really hates men
    wearing shiny glasses
    and boots
    riding on their big bikes
    like Kings of the Road

But everything changed
when she met at an old park,
someone who writes in simple paper
simple words of encouragement
and lessons based on his life

He was wearing shiny glasses
    and boots
    and black hat
    but never rode on a big bike

She loves his works so much-
   simple but elegant
   sometimes hot, sometimes not
   some are with silly things,
   but most are inspiring

His words feed her soul a lot

So if ever he forgets the way
back to that old park
she will search for him
or wait and pray

Only his words feed her soul a lot...