If you’re going to write poetry,
tell the truth before expressing
beauty, love or any mood.
& in that process, an eventual
understanding in the sadness of
it all how much this life lacks of
it all. Minds get lost when reading
those poems, praying only to
get closer to the truth. Oh poetry,
look how I live my life outside
my written word. Look what
you done.

There’s nothing profitable in poetry,
but everyone looks at the poet in awe,
there’s something about reading a
poem at the time, in the right mood
that sparks nothing that’s contagious,
but something illuminating.

It's’ easier to suffer
than it is to love,
love is in the wait,
suffering is in the now.

Writing into poetry,
anything can be,
but as I look back on
past, it’s there
& never leaving.
To I wish not all of it,
not everyone there
was apart of it.
To I yearn to write
on love
& not vent.

When in love without a lover,
all one can do is write poetry,
talking over one’s heart.

Is it too selfish not only to matter, but to belong? Despite how guilty I feel, how much sin I’ve committed, my failures, my shortcomings. Is it so wrong to devote myself to myself, to find my own meaning, my own cause, my purpose, my drive, to look for my own happiness, my truths, to **** my desire so I wouldn’t feel that I’m missing out, to find something to fill my void, so my soul wouldn’t live out throughout my day wounded? Even if I seek in external at times? Is it so wrong to be poetic, to be romantic, to be thy. Even if I turn to people like Aleister Crowley, to be inspired not only to think rational, to be passionate. Is it wrong to read philosophy, reject the thought of being complete is in the search of becoming complete? For I’ve peered into myself I found only sadness in the despair I saw & I don’t like. No matter how dramatic this is written, it is my truth, my burden, my curse & it’ the price I’ve paid for originality for wanting only to be myself & I find hard to smile realizing what I could've been by playing it safe & been without to what’s internalized in me. I’m meaningful to you, but a paradox, because I’m without you. I’m only on the brink of your life. As long as I’m on this earth, in this life, I am, unable to & able to live, alone & with others. I weeping now, but you weep when I’ve gone.

Because I am with myself all the time. Everything I do is needless effort, your eyes, your eyes, your eyes, it turns away like running feet in the mist, seeing God for the first time, I cannot see in your soul, do not enter mine, you may or may-not find what you want.