I'm not a poet, not an artist.
I can't say I've broken walls.
You won't read me, won't like me.
I won't be a quote you end up reciting
In ten years to friends in a quip
As if I could be slipped into normal conversation
As if my fame has any relation to my body's
Descent into the ground, I will still stay unknown.
Except to notebooks where dust has grown
Accustomed  to being undisturbed.
You won't read me.

You are not a poet,
Just as I am not a poet,
But that does not mean we cannot write poetry,
Perhaps one day we will be named poets,
But just as we are not poets,
Whoever grants us that title also can't be a poet,
So all I can wish to do,
Is touch the hearts of my fellow title tossers.

They say that
-apparently-
I am a grown up.

Sit straight
Stand tall
Wear this
Don’t fall.

Do this
Not that
Try this
Try that

I thought I was a grown up
Well, they say that too

But really
-not apparently-
I am a child.

Fail test
Take track
Room mess
Hunchback.

Street food
Another book
Random mood
Weird looks


I wonder why they name us so,
With titles so bizarre
And scary
Because
-in truth-
we are all children with blackened hearts.

We hurt ourselves
And each other.
I Love my sister,
And I Love my brother.

Sorry heart
Angry smile
Bad start
Hard trials.

I am child.
Nothing else
Maybe a grown up
But mainly just myself.

How do you describe the feeling of writing?
Is it more like equality in peace or fighting.
No, it's more like a slice of your whole being.
Less like these bygone facts and more like dreaming.
I like to think I write for the Hell of it.
Like I'm dreaming and I can't quit.

Writing can be described with emotion,
Which in it self is a well traveled ocean.
Writing is sad and happy and joyful,
However, It can also be impractical and vengeful.

So write to your souls content.
Write till it leaves a page creased and bent.
The reason is the Capital...


And the title is optional.

A TITLE divine is mine,
For a Wife without
A second of the Lord's Time.
Set this Prison free,
Burdened onto me -
The Queen of Chivalry.
Royal is all but the
Crown -
Diadems of my Death.
A lake to Heaven opens,
When two eyes meet
A Crystal to Crystal -
Rebirth - Renaissance;
Clouded -
Just in moments
Of a Loving Victory -
Erased away,
With the Title

Of Wife,
      And Husband,
And on her mood's decay,
Breaking their melody,
In this life,
Is it ever her own day?

What's in a title
but a taste of what's to come
what's in the first word
that lurked in the writer's mind
followed by a flood
of words

What's in the first glance
at the capital letter resting above all
but a rush of curiosity
to dissect the ideas later

What's in the boldness of it
but the courage to stand tall
and heavy with the bulk of the story

What's in the thought behind it all
but a chaotic idea
brought
to balance the tumultuous
ramblings
of a scared mind
only alive
under a title
in bold and capital

Recurring thoughts, dark visions of a reality that can never be. A false time with false hope. Harsh lives, perishing in smoke.

I find no comfort in simple words,
I’ve heard too many lies for that.
Even actions I always question
For ulterior motives always act.
Say you love me, let me feel it;
It’s a challenge, I understand.
But let me know I’m worth it
For real love should withstand
All obstacles—wipe my tears,
Heal my pain, make me whole
When I’m incomplete—yet
With you, my hungry soul
Is empty, parched, in need
Of something genuine at last.
Please, I can’t help but believe
Our future’s in my past.
I fear we may have turned,
In our hesitation, obsolete,
What will it take for you
To feed me something concrete?

I feel you into water
I feel you into air
In unknown a time of process
I want to be with you.

I do everything for you
Just gain your love with you
But you left your behind nothing
Because you are not worthing.