Underneath, there’s a stream of something different,
tender feelings, fear, broken pieces, memories, wishes
of the future, a complete inner-world, where everything
is speaking in poetics. Maybe a whole disaster. Touched
and ever flowing. Shattered over the crackling floor.
Where everyone seems to step on. Musings, letting me
know, endurance and there is no promise of life. Maybe
it’s you that’s destiny. Colliding together. For I’ve written
poetry before. Because I wanted t say everything to you,
without fault of forgetting and still want to say everything,
without skipping a beat. I’m desirous of all of it, everything
that comes with love, simultaneously and burst in explosion,
as if love was the first time ever. Actions in wild passion,
forgetting what’s underneath, I’m wanting to love now. Like
if forever exist. Validation happens in love. The mastering
of flaws, happens in love. Perhaps even streams of the
stronger, meaning of one’s life. For we know, bypassing the
unexpected turn, the horror of stumbling upon love, poetry
would of never started, if wasn’t for moments like this. There
is life without you, for that I cry, it’s something I would rather
not, endure if I must, viewing the world with hate and complete
bitterness.
(knowledge variable)

Maybe all our hearts are born broken. The despair
inside, a result from shattered pieces. Yearning is
unbearable, like fully being alive. Soulmates, odes
in poetry.  Knowing one another in dreams. But the
search for, angst making, tear making, soulmates
are meant to dwell in any poetry. You'll be embellishing
in natural beauty, I'll be watching you, writing poems
to pass the time, wishing for one glance.
(knowledge variable)

Writing poems, to holding heartbeats, from tears
to potential, butterflies over flowers, tender poems
in tender moments, lips parting, souls wanting to
share, what are the chances to meet a figure formed
here in reality, that not only matched, but exceeded
your dreams?
(knowledge variable)

As for me, everyday I remind myself that
I will die. Balancing it out. Each poem I
Write, I am reminded that love exists.
(knowledge variable)

Sometimes, the most beautiful pieces of art,
come from the most damaged and broken
people, isolation in solitude, original persona,
innovator of thought. They’re exiled in social
circles, frowned upon by family, ignored by
most. Dare to be themselves, dared to create
art.
(knowledge variable)

My only empathy I have towards truth,
it cannot be meet without some sort
of resentment. It lights a quiet earth,
sparks conversations after thoughts.
To what I can smile at, an effort to improve.
Plato, lonely is it ever truth is. Conflicting
views, based on emotion, that devalues
parts of life. Plato, perhaps it’s not the
contents of truth, just a matter of
respect.
(knowledge variable)

Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.