Oh poetry, how it is illuminated by love
and left behind all poems are, because
love is such an awakening experience.
To which, it could not be expressed
in words that’s forms poetry.  
Oh poetry, I do wonder how many of
those in suffering moments, and continue
to suffer in private torment, all because
they could not break, from their reserving
shyness and even though all poetry is
encouraging.
(knowledge variable)

Perhaps those who write poetry
are meant to be in love with those
who read poetry. Emerging from
quiet reading spots. Roses, lush
moments, blushing cheeks, wild
smiles, untamed glances and
everything else that’s cliche or
not, that is related to love. Not
everyone is meant to live lonely.
(knowledge variable)

Poetry, is it fine to view upon
thy lover as Angel at all times?
It’s heightened in tender moments,
where she’ll rub her hand, down
my face. For how many times
poetry, I wrote poems of love,
prayed and wished upon her,
that the muses had no choice
for this uncreated love to come true.
(Now things will never be the same,
oh poetry, is my past leading to
this moment worthless, cause it
is without her or just a path in aches?
But it’s just the way it is.)

Writing poetry isn’t my repertoire muse,
romance is. Long, broad, stretching
deep Angel dust in deepening substance.
Something like mixing Nostalgia in with
memories, experiences present and
my yearnings to be better than yesterday
is parenting my future.
Romance, an addiction and my obsession
(knowledge variable)

Since I’ve seen her, tilting up, glancing
to the side, pearls and looking away,
Angel, I’ve seen nothing but her. Not
even one single poem or aesthetic moment.
Now my heart is softening for tender moments.
(Dear Mr. Ouija board, I want to know my
future, will it happen, or will more ******
happen? More ******? Will I die and come
back and be nothing. Dear Mr. Ouija board,
I want to know my future.)
knowledge variable

Let our very essence entwine, in our
breathe when we lean in to kiss. Souls
marrying, as our bodies make love.

Perhaps there is no such thing as
two lovers. Perhaps it’s extension of
beauty from one source of life.
Loving when you meet that one at
the crossroads.
(knowledge variable)