Wow. For once I feel hate for someone who doesn't live inside my head. You disgrace to humanity. She tells me that she can't be love because of you. You have scarred her, you have hurt her. All of you have. You tore her apart and when she had nothing left to give, you left her. Because you told her you loved her, then left her alone, she doesn't believe me when I say it. She actually trusted you. Now she thinks I'm lying whenever I tell her I love her, she thinks I'm delusional because I want to spend every last moment I have here with her. She thinks all I want to do is use her and leave her. She hurts herself because, because pain is the only thing that makes her feel comfortable. It's because of you. If I ever find you. I won't hold back. I'm psychotic, I love it when I can hurt someone. And you've given me one hell of a reason to.

1.You shall not confine beauty, that which is in the eye of the poet charged to show it to the world.

2.There is no poetry better than the other, although your words are different you all bear witness to the soul's confession.

3. You will write freely not to incite popularity but to give truth to this art.

4. You shall never use poetry as self vanity but for exploring the spirituality within each other.

5. You will not be confined to the repetition that you have used in poetry, poetry is an exploration of the self, therefore the words are too an evolution of discovery.

6. The words will be therapeutic and truthful to the self so that you can see the truth in the world to bring about the compassion within.

7. You will bleed your self onto paper and very word will be yours for everyone else, there is no poetry without others to read it.

8. The words shall be as a confession that does not inspire sorrowful outlooks, but it shall inspire into action those who knew no better than before your suffering.

9. Being true to yourself first and foremost is an absolute; if you lie to yourself then how can one be a true person, much less a true poet?

10. Each poem will be a gift to the world, but it will never be greater than your dream and will always be inferior to the most marvelous of dreams which is the art of poetry itself.

To the warmth of life
And passing through with grace
Of a woman in hand under veil,
Lavished in her unconquered beauty,
Enamored with her saving grace
Amid the elation of first kiss,
Under the spell of first eternity.

And through the veils of silence
When the swarm of sounds of
Making love have devoured the hours
And he stares into fertile eyes,
The truth of his belief in them,
And the prelude to forever's nest,
The dove returns upon white unifications.

But soon the dove will deny the embrace,
And the cold lonesome dove
Will be forgotten in the skies blue,
The touch of ****** prowess ,
The soft moist of lips that convened
A destiny of adornment with kisses
So deep and meaningful that it vibrates
Through times like a phantom flame
From forever's fire,
The bitter flight of the dove with passion
To ravage her body,
Upon the return open does the veil.

Before passion abandons,
Let them return home to nest
The kisses from that eternal night,
That journey for the taste your
Of your sanguinary fruit
Provoking the eternal flight.

Before her lips close at the dove's
Return, lift the veil of forever
On the romantical threshold,
The death and purity,
The light and the venom,
What white veils may hide.

It is better not to go to Eden
Empty handed, solemnized,
Among the mutilated people.

Even among first fruits, now withered,
The words of poets with their
Pompous thoughts and politics,
They must have thought themselves
Great for survival of the flood,
Groaning at lesser poets in their eyes.

The ominous black thoughts,
They have worded destruction on
To the new poets whom might steal
Their light in a ghostly place,
So that they do not return and we
Are stuck with the same moderation
While falling under an evil spell
Of repetitive words mixed with
Bitter allusions.

When the site turns to "goodbye"
Instead of hello, inside an old enclosure
Creaking with the same ole and their
Followers hoping to be hearted by
Mediocrity and sleepy eyes,
We all lose a little of what this place
Was.

And I will enter the poem hated,
Earning respect the way it should be,
With my words that cannot judge,
With my hearts that have eyes and
Have read your poem,
I will humm along the spider's webs
And see if I can see the hope and reason
Of why any of you write these
Wonderful confessionals.

In the relentless nature of renewal,
The crying of new born poets,
For what is given and taken
In the words of you ,
I will be here,
Renovated alters for your sacrifice,
I will ring the bells
With fluctuating tones,
The affectionate words of your sorrow,
By the light of your dramatic hearts,
There is a poet who does not take sides,
I am here to read and enjoy,
Either in the light or the dark,
The intimate poetry that is you.

You that heavily sits in somber
Wondering what it was that Life should put you here
Perhaps just a smudge of black by the Artist
Who hastily concealed your mark with thick pallets of red and gold

I saw you hanging from my last thread
I wondered whether it fate that would play this game
Those hardened eyes bore holes through me
And out poured all the pink & sticky parts
That you caught it in a jar

Cover with a lid.  You watched the fight for air
Bursting up Buzzing, hastily colliding against glass walls
Then Flickering, fluttering, til’ downwards, swaying
It finally died.

You on my last thread, I would never think of such an end
Sudden lightness topples my perch
And fly I would above the darkness
Once I cut you, free.

Waiting in the park
A quiet night
Revenge will be carried out

"Good evening, Doctor,"
Grief took hold,
I extract my gun,

The shot rang out,
Water turned red,
The deed was done,

I saw my gun,
I pulled the trigger,
"See you soon, my love."

Laying in bed. Starring at the ceiling. Each beat of my heart is a thunder crack inside my head. I can feel the blood pumping through my eye, even though I can't see out of it. The swelling has half blinded me. My face, numb yet I can taste the blood filling my mouth. My knuckles, possibly the only pain I can feel. Cracked and bleeding. This isn't enough pain for what I've done. But I can barely lift my own fist. Slowly fading. This is too familiar. I don't deserve this pain. I deserve so much more, I deserve to be hurt so badly there is no healing. No coming back. I need to be hurt more. Or else She'll never feel safe.