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Under silver moonlight, for the purpose of
romance as the lovers see the stars as only
of windows to Heaven. And when they kiss,
Heaven enters their souls and become not
connected with Heaven, but with each other,
as they make love, they totally become intertwined
and every poet lives in jealous.
Perhaps the use of poetry, is to be used
to heal heartbreak wounds, piercing from
one’s soul. The pain is long and forever
deepening, as this life is too brief for it to
heal. Remember young poet, in times of
bitter loneliness, you’re still attached to this world
and anyone reads your poems, they’re
attached to you and if they cry as a result,
momentarily the loneliness lessens. There
is no greater search, than the one whos
looks for their soulmate and refuses to believe
they live in myth.
Two worlds collide in one single moment
when two give into their love, binded and
powerless to avoid such holy power. Give
a slight laugh, to learning that it could
happen outside Heaven. Unlocking hearts
and speaking it’s language. Outside of
poetry, forgetting the melancholy life in
a loud roar towards to neolife, retreating
that breathe by leaning in for a kiss as
opening gates to the souls to meet and
make love. To live alone, outcast to this
world where the rest are sharing, blind to
real love that poetry had attempt to teach
them, without asking for anything in return.
Where the lovers gestures, emotions,
thoughts and private world, spark such
great works of poetry, that will get made by
active Muses, surely humanity will not ignore,
though I’m sure they will. Real love to find
and to know, is rarer than finding myth in
reality. Behind closed doors of minds in marriage,
sing songs unwillingly, of what’s different
to the veils they dress in.    
(knowledge variable)
’ve always had a great need for greater solitude, like how the lungs needs air, that the heart beats and the poet needs love. It reminds me about myself, allowing myself to sit and feel my own emotions, to listen to my own thoughts, to see where regret and shame brews, take the corrective steps to correct, to see who I feel for, either as a lover or as a friend, allow myself to cry over people I knew that arent no-longer here and to appreciate those who make an effort to say hello to me. Most of it, the frustration with myself or with life, seems to be weakened after my isolating-solitude and something reminds me that it’s no so bad. We all have childlike nature inside, there is one thing stronger than tears that a child can’t hold back, it’s pure joy. At that very point, we cry at meeting our soulmate, it’s not because there’s an inherent sadness in either life. It’s because they’ve turned out far more superior than ourselves, producing beauty that any poet thought that only Angels could produce. And we’ve rendered by our soul to burst in tears, not at our painful past that it lead us to this point or that fact, anything we had worked for, had lost its value. It’s because we disregard our future and finally live in this present with the very person that the Heavens had personally created for us. And finally, to every love song, every poem, to those every smile, finally makes sense for the briefest of time. Than our attention, all of it, fully and stronger intentions than making it to Heaven, is passed onto our lover. The consummation of them, inside of us, won’t allow it. Until someone sees us, for who we really are, despite of own defects and faults, and our path to uplift and fulfill destiny is gained by their attention - is known. We are loved. Smile after crying, smile for me now, pictures of us immortalized in images.
Like others, in the speeching tone, melancholy, that
trembles throughout lands. Moon glow and Sun’s
rays. As masterpieces of any art, were not intended
for this age, period, any culture or the whole spectrum
of civilizations. They had landed here on earth, mere
mistakes. But the imprisonment of thy mind, worse
than living in bitterness, it’s the blasphemy of this life
constantly slapping you. Where you’re never ending
in clarity of mind and conscious, nowhere you go, the
world would an environment equal or greater than
your inner-world. Rise up above art and life. And
commit oneself to death.
Perhaps poets are those going into poetry, because
they’ve meet their soulmate and came up short.
Unable to bear the pain, so, in secret, writing forms,
they’ve spreaded their pain over this earth and just
maybe that had burdened humanity, with poems
articulating actual pure love, we all yearn, articulated
soulmates, from the poets lost love. Trickling devils,
now we all have something to aspire to, in higher
ways of living, forgetting there is life right in front
of eyes that isn’t muted.  
(knowledge variable)
The conversation I only want to witness, is not
between the Devil and God. It’s one between
Van Gogh and Mozart. When I meet my own
creator, I know better than most, I’ll keep my
petty complaints for myself and I shall listen
only. Poet, a fragile creature, yearning love and
actual wisdom, that surpasses them to be a mere
Human. Clumsy hands, that always write the
wrong words, to the wrong poems, forming them
all wrong, where humanity is willing to devote
themselves, to such great works of art. I’ll never
be Rumi. Oh thy Muse, how peaceful would life
be without love. There would be no wars to fight
within myself. Let all poetry be contradiction
within themselves, like all poets inside their
inner-world to their exterior.  
(Knowledge Variable)
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