and she emerges, her wings
taking shape into the spring of youth
a crimson butterfly painting with her blood
against your words of expectation.
she is
                 beautiful,       free.
deciding against the whims of men
so intent on criticizing her very nature.

and she becomes the sun, burning brightly with her blade.

We stand by those we trust,
All the while they transgress against us.
Friend or foe to behold?
For only they will surely know.

Trust someone in this day and age
Is nothing more than a noble cliché.

Slanderous words of dishonesty,
Destroying your character with their brutality.
The world believes them as they lie,
Who can one trust in this earthly enterprise?

Longing for the days of old
When men were men, as good as gold.

I long for days where a handshake meant
Your word a bond, and honor felt.
Agreements made without paper convention;
Handshakes were the business transaction.

Honor flowed throughout the lands,
Everyone gave a helping hand.
A favor wasn’t done for return,
As a friend indeed was someone earned.

Days of past will not return
As immoral acts are loved and learned.
Handshakes, a thing of the past,
Your word, a thing that no longer lasts.

Violence can take hold of anyone;
It strips away the virtues of what one was;  
It is the thing that breeds contempt in one's soul,
It forces them to lash out from the depth below;

A depth so dark where terror fills the night,
A place so cold that Hell would never know,
A silence so loud, it would drive one insane;
So grim this place, no one could ever brave.

These “Ones” whose virtues were compromised
Seek vengeance against the deviants of immoral genocide;
To lash against the transgression wrought upon their souls,
To reimburse the deviants ten thousand fold.

Retribution will be made on their day of reckoning
As these deviants will regret the pain and suffering
They invoked upon the “Ones” they wronged.

For now they wish they never engaged
In their acts of brutality and incoherent rage.

Justice has set forth and finally prevailed.

The presence of our contemporary age
Alters artistic vision down a spiral of emptiness.
Artist no longer create the visual page,
Their spellbound by ambitions of digital laziness.

Visions lost to the age of simplicity,
Erased to machines’ evil desires,
Deluded by storms of deception,
Creativity ceased as hell endures its fires.

Instant gratification — the new reality —
The yearning for excellence, no endurability.
Modern day artistic creativity,
Coerced by digital debility.

Tradition bankrupt by false realities,
Lost to a pallet of ones and zeros;
Artwork with no archival ability,
The future lost to modern day technologies.

Legs pumping, muscles screaming
Eyes transfixed, seeing but not seeing,
Mind wandering sometimes dreaming
Heart thumping, loudly beating.
Body glistening, pace increasing,
No thought other than just breathing,
Inner voice gently pleading,
It's against me that you're competing.
Hardened gaze, resolve seeking
Any thought of slowing down but fleeting,
End in sight, goal achieving,
In determination solely now believing.
Then it’s done, smile cracking
Hands on thighs, tension fast releasing,
Time to rest, morning breeze fast cooling,
A sense of private purpose sweeping.
This day’s success a moment surely fleeting,
Yet little tops this burst of joyful feeling.

As my father likes to say,
"same ****, but a different toilet"
With kids at the age to loiter. Sitting on all their
dreams, that they feel discomfort. There's a taste of
***** in the words mixed with a little chronic.
In between the lines of sort of psychotic, and iconic;
scornful eyes of adults who think we're quite ironic.

Broke ties, with the broke kids with empty pockets,
filled with their dreams; to then having a blast with
older girls—launching your pocket rocket. Three, two,
one, is count down of when someone is coming.
To yearn for love we never got from adults, as we're
always longing. Always copying, the styles of the famous
to seem relevant in the topic. While getting high in between
classes, and pretending that feeling is so awesome.

Some skinny jeans to fit in with the masses, rip it up a
bit to be the latest in the fashion. Snap your life away,
and add a little cute caption. Looking for a bit of romance,
but my favourite genre is a little action. A little traction in
between us, until I'm tired of smashing and passing.
Falling in love—as casual. To question my worth, while
buying things more valuable. Things of the world so intangible.

Searching for answers on the wall, writing out our wishes so
you can relate to them all. Dreaming of being stars; but every
star eventually will fall. Help me, help me please, do you here
me at all?

Would you kindly be a help to your young?
I'm dying quietly in the loudest of fun.

Opinions create

division, so do something --


that is just helpful.

As the likeness of dark; a pathway into
the mind of a depressed tormented soul,—
The beauty of their expression is a walk in
the park. There's a spark to a passionate flame to any art;
But also a hurt of creation from the echo cracks of their heart.

A mountain top I'd have to climb, a large hill made
of stone. A thorn in my side, as the bleeding anguish
to paint out favourable dreams. The kiss of so real;
in a reality painted in the colours of tears.  I've seen things
so clear, to see nothing of this world was meant to be so real.

Yet the realest tears of unanswered prayers, falls upon
the bruises of my knees. Real as knowing not all will
believe in you and your dreams. The Dark's light—is
seeing past the shadow of ominous oppressiveness.
A lasting restlessness of wanting to impress all those
around, the larger crowd, of painted smiles of daily clowns.
They'd easily praise you being brave—the loudest voice of cowards.

They would shoot you down, (bang, bang)
and after you make it big; turn around and say they're so proud.
(Enemies becoming fans) letting it be the case, humble character
wouldn't make a boastful sound. In the end I know my God has
and always been so proud.

There's always a light in the dark.

In this haunting city where the summer is humid and also sticky,
the sun blisters the naked skin
As silver Beads of sweat trickle
Like sweet gelato drizzling in the blazing heat.

There is poetry in the streets
Of graffiti, mellow lights and yellowed walls.
Of cobblestones and of riches
Dazzling every inch of this old city.

The air is laden with soulful music
Of long, lost love
Of passion
And of words rolling melodically and melancholically in modern Latin.

The souls gone by
Of artists, slaves and martyrs
Wander eternally in this ancient city.

They whisper softly in the evening wind
Knowing every tourist and every Roman,
Enchanting gently to their soulful being.

So with longing I think of Rome
As i feel the whispers in the evening wind.
Hypnotised, spellbound; knowing that somehow -
i  am rome.