mourning echo of despair,
I am alive but not in vain,
your hopeless touch of deaths of joy,
your wealth of thought, your tempting lure,
I am but graciousness and pain,
this is a wealth of deaths upon a death,
a purple substance of the paralysed veins,
a storm of flames up in the luring infinite,
the face of sacred, the embedded truth,
a love of demons and despair,
suffocated in the fragrance rain,
deep in the breath of time’s sexuality,
a murdered youth in luxury,
a hopeless, faint, exquisite memory,
the burning oceans in the pure dark,
the touch of lust, hypnotic mystery,
a breath so freezing on the mind,
the death’s alive and kills and reigns.

You were searching everywhere.
All in vain.

But didn't it strike you,




                                              How can you look for someone,
                                               who doesn't want to be found?

There's something in my head
That keeps me awake
There's something in my head
That keeps me wreak
There's something in my head
That makes me afraid
There's something in my head
That make me ranged
But there is one thing in my head
That makes me think i wanna escape.

the guilt
the sin
the hatred within

thinking if we disguise our hair
in an obscure form of veil
they will conceal our madness

thinking if our skin prevails
after years of stacking knitwear
they will shred our sadness

then asking us why are we so vain?
why do we masquerade our emotions to keep us sane?
when all your attempts strives to conceal what’s underneath
underneath that cloth you call a veil
underneath that skin you use for sale

the morals
the virtues
the lies you preach

It is just another mask you wish to keep

from rough, tattered to freshly scented pages,
I've read words, applauded for ages.
No, they haven't touched souls,
for then graveyards would have been shrines,
of these wise, elite men,
who lived the life at deep.

Innumerable scribblings,
gaining shiny molds of clay that make good decors.
all life's struggle praised for literary skills.

Wonder is a poet's life.
The greatest poem of all times, his own life,
'cause he imagined his music meltings stone so hard,
but the truth lies far beyond.

We are devils, made of dust so rare
that rains so fragile
cannot wash it offshore.