Innocent until self-awareness. Frozen halo.forming formless pagans, to help start a holy war. Poet prophet. Poems used as garnish methods to people's insecurities. Consulting monks libraries. Cinnamon sigh, nicotine hitting bloodstreams, flower carpets, sullen and sudden in metaphors, concerto sweeping movements, yielding in romance, fruitful as flowers lay as carpet for Earth’s land.

Poetic romance

Destiny in romance

Love and lingering yearnings

Always chasing

It takes something more than confidence to allow yourself to be what you’ve always wanted to be and still go beyond. Inside or outside poetry

To whenever you find truth, you’re generally alone

Spike

Life is not a poem, let it be spontaneous, fulfilling of passion, with art following behind as art is created by it’s own deriving birth, it reveals meaning as its need to show in experience, as my eyes see nothing but dreams, roses at my feet, hopeless key to your heart. Eternally chase always. There’s something addictive to be in the yearning of life. Sometimes to live, is to endure, killing courage in the process. To be loved, hmmm, conflicting, I want to. Yet not brave enough to be. Being pulled apart.

Suffering more so from private imagination than in reality, making reality always looking softer

Eyes drunk upon original beauty,
yearning of love, nothing but a famous
thought, famed poetry. Tears of Muses,
it’s surprisingly overwhelming in addictive
waves, how divine anyone can become.
Sharing streams of consciousness with
one’s own Muse. For I stumbled upon
love, where their beauty had allured me
in, romance nothing but a cage. I dare
not to escape, for everything now has
Completely lost it’s value.

Without thy lover, sadness caught in my throat,
unable to speak and easily seen. Knowing it
isn’t impossible to express everything running
through the mind. Just in separate poems. I’m
only heading towards attention being the presence
of my lover, elevation in illumination, to everyone
else is mundane, dull and local, lacking in
substance, mystical attributes, originality. For my
Muse has left to that other place, leaving us to
be fully. For I will ****** the entire humanity
in exchange to spend forever with thy lover.
For now, I’ll accepting my soul-selling to thee.


There’s something addictive about the
romantic yearnings, that brings not only
meaning, it magical produces and highlights
one's own destiny. Poet, though it can
produce the most spellbinding poetry
while in this state. Do not dwell and embellish
it, garnishing it with poems. Always put in
the work and meditate over the time your
yearning changes from dreams to reality.

Muse, perhaps poetry is similar to philosophy,
questions without answers, just with romantic
overtones and beautiful veils that is all derived
from something dark and painful. To which to
poetry I can dedicate myself to, not only it
seduces me from it’s tempting words, pulling
me in, to which I thought where I would find love,
in the end, it heals my wounds. Leaving me
alone, asking if there is actual love, that poets
had been talking about, since Plato’s time.
But to each of us, that can provide this life a
particular talent and skill, matching our own
rhythm and suffering. I’m rubbing my skin against
poetry, words instead of fingers and breathing,
holding Nizsetche hands, walking into church
and bursting into a ball of flames, confessing
my own trembling desire, faces of poetry stepped
on to every step taken, thinking I’m being placed
on the hall of fame, I just turned sober and left
with the fall of shame. Not with innocence, my
life happens when I shut my eyes. Let the suffering
write out a new philosophy, just the smash everyone’s
own dreams.


I felt the absence of life in most,
so I turned to poetry for life instead
and felt no regret since. And there
is nothing as beautiful, than the life
I missed out on, as the life I experience
could make me smile, because no other
life could do.


Freedom, the secretive and conclusive gesture,
that life has bread in the either, echoing with it
in the air, perhaps it’s greater than love to the
poets. It is all that above, freedom is, or it does
not exist. There’s a scent to it, as our hands
naturally know how it feels, to every attempt to
grasp upon and hold. Only in moments of death,
perhaps as we let go the life we had just lead,
we can finally experience it, providing better
ecstasy than any illumination. I had always for
something, I could never touch. Poetry cannot
constantly be split into dreams and reality.
For I have no-idea how the soul stays sane,
living in this duality. For me, it’s useless being
alive, if one is not the path of personal revelation,
whether that’s in love of thy soulmate, or just
the transcendence of one’s illumination. But the
saddest thing is, is not whether we can reach it
before death, it’s that those rare people who do,
get frowned upon, be called mad, and turned
away into exile, by the layman's-mundane ignorance.
Finally breathing through the wind, as my body
dives into the bath of Muses below, where I’m
blessed with martyrdom, which is the highest any
human can achieve. It isn’t really true, just because
you witnessed a person die for it. Even though
my life was a discovery of things, worth dying for
like my love for my soulmate.  
(Why be master, when one can be king?)


The only problem with the self,
that is, there is so many various
ways that the perception works.
Eternity maybe longer than life,
arh and lucidity in the sense of
my Muse, acting as a Higher Power,
suspecting in yearning that isn’t
human. Poetry leaves only passages,
it’s like any other art. Lessons in
symbols. Not in a state of constant
dreaming. Individual fate. My
own future, being a parent - present,
melts in my hands now. I’m in
a constant state of illumination.

Pegasus I’ve found him. Tropical odds. Beating death. Immortalized in picture.
In love, nobody ever gets the person they had spent dreaming.
It’s horrifying. And the insecurity that comes with love.
A hellish experience.
Love had always been portrayed as innocent. Fine, your past is something to mourn over. Parting from it. Love demands that one’s past is forgotten. Present now, parent to the future. It’s an experience now to be explained.
Poetry for comfort.
Glances, eye glare, a flare. Flushing eyelashes. Not to be caught.
Is it actually dangerous to romanticize somebody? To be burden and pressed under love, is something I would rather have. Anything I would, if it’s the beat the feeling of feeling normal.
It’s a emotional waterfall. A change of shade. Alluring and seducing colours. Love is addiction. With the urge to carry on, despite not holding the courage to do so.
Oh poetry, lyrics to leave anyone spellbounded. To be in love, is to be hellbound. Rather all that brewing feelings now, to love passionately, as if forever exist. Desirous of thee, at all times. Kissing lips, swapping souls. An extension of one’s character. The critic. The caregiver. A lover. Oh poetry, how match distance have you missed the mark of accurately describing the experience of love. Still you raised to place effort to motivate. To provide belief that it actually exists and that love doesn’t belong to you.
For I’m ready to give up any earthly thing, desire, success, friend or family for any moment of love in hot and wild times, leaving traces of tender spots.
The results of love, will always be something no-one determines.
From somebody unexpected and never asked for.
At random.
Outside of one’s daily life.
The harshness of avoiding the acceptance of it,
Harder than reality.
Love is everything of prosecutor. Condemning sin.
It’s a sweeping in historical fashion of providing something more than any human purpose.
I get the poetry everywhere I go, I bust the poet open and take all his poems, I’m still claiming romance, till the day I die.
As for anyone standing outside, in the coldness of rain,
was the lack of love from no lover worth it, for the life you’re living?
Why I love thee, is something I’ll never know.
Cry now? What for?

Being alone is created from vast amounts of reasons,
quiet minds, quiet mouths, loud poetry and demanding
art. Prying eyes are constant from the outside. Peering
always. Never a helping hand. Not an expressive concern.
Working hard to endure, harder to be oneself. It’s easy to
be like everyone else. Poet continues to dream and lays
it out onto papers, blanket words, for dreaming about
the grandeur greatness, in art and in social forms, are
far more exciting than being one. For it’s sad how much
of life is filled with the mundane. Muddy and murky.
And how disappointing it is when one steps out, to be
something of themselves.
(knowledge variable)

Oh poet, always in that stream of mood, a stranger,
in a place that’s overwhelming and never asked a
thought on it’s own design. Given life freely, born
like everyone else. Yet, still in exile over this globe.
A dark yawning. A mundane normality. Without a
lust for anything, going about it’s daily business,
without a name. Do not wonder too close to them.
Stay with poetry. For someone needs to mix
emotions, sensations and thoughts together and
take the time to articulate. For the rest, are too
busy fitting in.
(knowledge variable)

Even the horror has stopped, the irony has a place
in one’s heart. Poetry is always forgotten during the
horror. I had always thought, if the eyes of death
blinked first, would give me a smile. It didn’t. Death
just continued. Now there’s fictional truth about me.
(knowledge variable)

Vanishing yearnings, losing sense of time, provoke a myth,
impending a little apocryphal. The sun rises and it goes. A
breathe that creates shadows, covering mountains, something
that isn’t learnt. Flawed genius. Goats cry. Mystics chant
songs that praise. A faint taunt of rage, before turning to sobs
and whimpers. Gloom in darkness. Sin to be paid. Nothing
to do, but change in shift structures.

Believe in eyesight, believe now, if not, not to worry. Garments
drop from the air, blood replacing rain, this is not to express a
furious despair. When evening is not, muddy and dark waters,
where children swim, a distraction. Adapt not. It will not reward.
Murmur of voices carry in the wind, as the earth prepares to
stop spinning, it’s prays and nothing else. Horror turns to most
resistant to a religious observer.

A collection of suffering and nothing else.  

On the other side, debates, battles, things we cannot invent
in our minds eye, argue over us. Their decision is based on
our actions. This is democracy. A flavour of goodness. Brewed
from unholiness. Tragedies remind us, constantly on death.
Yet. We all die one day. Despite our thoughts, intents and
actions leading towards it. We can’t we die together?

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)