Oh poetry, I’ve separated Heaven and earth, in one thought.
Mysticism itself, no-need to be a institutionalization, for
I own my body as my soul becomes one. The ones in the
Shadows of dropped curtains, shape everything over this
earth as they rest in the betweens, some call it boid as
the catholics call it ‘purtogray.’ For me it is only a place
where the mind can enlightened. Awakened illuminati.

Muse, in bright lashes and painted
nails, I confront the conforming
social trends and I laughed.
I was taken by force to exile.
I’m not mad at you, it’s done in
the dark. They painted my body
in red, because I stumbled behind
the curtains. Some things are
Best left unsaid, even if, most
of the population are left
to look the same. I knew they
had to leave me there.
Smoke that Bombay

Poems, somehow, poetic words
have none the value for what
I feel in experience, nor in
wondering in thoughts, even if
the thoughts and emotions.
Dancing with thy soul.
Experience awakening than die.
(They used to tell me,
the devil is the crazy one.
Told he hated me.
Then I got a little older
and learnt they are the crazy
ones. There’s nothing I
can say or do to change
They are. Red turns into
orange after a washes.
But that’s normal? Isn’t it
Norman? Out of our med’s
and out of minds, bring in
the world.) Why I say these things
cause people's scream, keep
creeping in my dreams.

Lover, why I’m I afraid to die?
I belong to you. Knowing you,
a life worth living, because
I made something of myself.
In the process of it all. I had
become the man you’ve always
wanted and in you, a character
so exceedingly overwhelming
of true beauty, touching holiness,
you ended up saving me.
Smile for me now.
When it comes time to die,
I’ll render thoughts of you.
And take comfort and ease,
I’ll wait for you there, in other
kingdoms, where those brave
enough to go with their soulmate
in durations of horrifying true
and perfect love.
Than can people bloom.
Smile for me, again and again.

The thing about beauty, it has brought
me everything I thought I wanted.
Thinking it will bring me contentment.
(meaningful attention, deepening knowledge
gifts, conversation over the arts.)
How wrong I’ve been. Even though I
thought different. Muse, soothe me,
like roses, I’ve been drenched in thorns.
False-beauty believes in a image in
the mirror, the others don’t. Now that I'm
scared, I've formed another beauty,
a life lived.

Love cannot be articulated, it can be expressed during experience,
never to meet vain or envy. Worshiping all romance and
valuing everything. Pulling strain on everything else, resulting
in complete loss of value, if the love is true. Slow, feeling rapid,
waking conscious to both involved. Poet’s praise as others weep
in jealous-joy. Blooming flowers. The entire being is overwhelmed.
Never to meet the kind of love, that others do, that is somehow
always falls short, in its confinement of normal living and talk of
that the love I share with thy soulmate, does not exist. They
have never been and whimper in times of honest reality or at
the time of yearning redemption at death.

She could be a direct mediator between Heaven and earth,
Heavenly power - equal to Angels that help her muse over poetry.
Her earthly power, producing a new institution of philosophy and
the arts, along by sparking a new period of humanity, forgetting
any philosophy and art in our history, with passion. The fact
that her heart, mind, character and soul is all connected and tamed,
she is a walking Empire. I know, because I paid attention when
she tempted me with seducing beauty of smiles and glittering eyes.