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.

To place importance on beauty can be argued.
Oh to theromantics, ask them, they’ll reply in
poetics, ‘perhaps their character cannot tame
it all and it drips onto their flesh and if they’re
luck, they’ll imprint earth.’ To which, if you ask
me about the earth, it's soulless, neither siding
with good and evil. It’s up to people to do so.
People give God or the Devil power. A question
to who is at best at enticing. But for me, I shall
have my coffee and be content in love until death.
(knowledge variable)

Lust, the illusion to fill my missing parts,
marvellous and frivolous things, smiles
in between, though it lasts only in moments.
Reminiscents of broken dreams.
(knowledge variable)

Eager rushing sensations, waiting to escape, finding love and never finding the right words to say. Varied and wondering dreams, restless in all it’s waking threads of time. Rose gardens that house all kinds, like sunflowers for Van Gogh, humming amongst them. The mood helps providing a sense of freedom, though most never follow through. Maybe it’s only peace that I’ve always wanted. Something that isn’t found under a chestnut tree. Poetry a way beyond conversing with oneself, a self portrait for one’s eternal life, opened for viewing, it's something more than wanting street fame. Flashes of knowledge. As pearls. Self-doubt has become normal, something lingering around, it’s tiring in my engagement with it. Clouded mists, dripping over my essence, for I’m guilty for being anxious. Though there’s a-lot of men who stay heated, most of them stay bluffing underneath, hollering at the moon on the roof, passing any yearning for actual love. Because it’s something made out of lust. Now poetry spoils me, maybe it’s too much of a good thing, I’m alone in the world and it’s something I never wanted. For me, it always seems that I end up like this, a darkened world and I’m centered in it. For love, it was all bone and ashes, with poets skills, turned them into something so potent, forming beauty so we all forget about life’s natural wonders. A nightmare for the moment. Thoughts that are vivid, I’m not lost, I’m on a path that’s constructed for me. The only predestined item, in my own existence. Not reluctant. Even when you’re heading towards your fate, it’s still no obligated to provide you all that you ever craved, including the lips of a lover. It’s a sudden and unexpected shock. Sometimes laying a scent of bitterness inside. Yes, it can provide tears. Maybe I’m just impatient. Though in poetry, I take glimpse, into another’s world, another’s experience. I just don’t want to know about love. The experience of it, that's in experience love, far-more illuminating than any poem that anyone can read. It’s a certain grace, a different type of contentment, being in love, maybe a final place for personal progress to stop, rest and let go. Feeling safe in another’s arms. For if the same love is given back. Controlling the movement of the sun with each poem. Salmon sky, starlight, fireflies, providing a sense of romantic aroma, scented poems, kissing, eyes glitters in their flickering. Hands holding, insecurity fades and each lover forgets about them, fear forgotten to the point of it never existed. Love, not belonging to romance art. Violin for symphonies. Some infinities are bigger than others. Changing fates, change paths, I’m a paradox. Whenever I’m glanced at. I’m under no obligation to be the person others are. Like how life is to me. Not out spite. Not to taunt. Just be.The issue of self-awareness, giving me the knowledge to be my own person. Harping in the waltz. Solemn in my own thoughts. Private. Wanting to burst. But I render to myself on my path, dealing with daily struggles. Maybe I’m private in order to keep myself for the one I’m meant to be for. This is all just a prelude to my own enlightenment. This is only a note to a track record. Fire. I look back on times of that self-awareness, what a large lump of weary years. The wanting to live, the desire and dreams, than not having the ability to do so. Till I started the to notice the beauty of life, without knowing the beauty inside, I looked inside and saw a supplication, and produced my own courage, hollowness in others I could always understand, people's wanting to understand, to have friends, to talk, to be noticed, to be helped. To what I didn’t see, original lives, people all just fitting into conformity. Friends and family will believe always in your potential, nauseating in person duality. Always. Without fail. It’s a different story once you want to act on it. Nothing there is spontaneously. Oh frown on that life where it's easier to bleed, than it is to smile. Maybe nothing in life is predestined. And the search to have my own fate come to furitation is all any illusion, a trick to find myself. To create something holy here on earth. And it’s shocking to see how many people want you grounded. Though what do you do, when love turns to hate?For all I know, my own heart isn’t meant to be enclosed. But if you can’t create yourself, if you won’t rebel, stand up for yourself. In order to avoid scars. Beauty won’t belong to you. Not the beauty of the flesh. The kind of beauty that comes from inside.The soul is stronger than the flesh, rendering it more valuable. I’ve noticed the war between Angels and Demons.I could be all wrong. It could just be something of a self-made myth. The smart philosopher will know, the peace is known internally and the externally will never match. There’s few things more pleasurable than *** and revenge. It’s returning to a place of hardship, during success. And no one notices how much doubt affects our own lives. To apply within, to save myself from all those fears and insecurities. For I had meet someone, changing, shifting the patterns inside, I first felt illuminated for the first time. I smiled, encouraged me to stop reading, reading the lives of others, begin to live for myself. He held me hand, caused me to smile, asked me to talk, sat and listened, took an interest, asked for nothing more, than my time and presence, for what we did during that, that was up to me. Putting in time, was the only work required. Projecting ourselves beyond the mundane parts, going forth, passing poetry itself. It was like discovering Mozart’s music for the first time in humanity. We replaced the mocking chants of time’s minutes, moments or angst future to be now, with passion, love, heated exchanges of wanting to dive into one in another. And each lover can remember the first, the last and the only. It’s a brief life. To have it full of something else, like holiness. It’s another thing. Trust me, to be enticed, to be tempted, to be curious. If it’s for true love. Let it happen. It sparked the belief for me, that real love does not live in poetry, paintings, in novels or in some cosmic planet or parallel life. Our soulmates belong in our hands, to have them feel safe to be themselves. It’s funny, I had always wanted a man to come in, storming into my life, to save me. God cannot be everywhere. The most dangerous thinkers are the ones who act on love. For God made lovers, not to be everywhere, for I ended up saving my lover. Poetry only nature's the faith of love, because poems are food for love. But who has not truth in their heart, will not see the beauty of the other. To how I had lost him. It’s on account of the earthly problems. The ego is the ugliest part the human race. As for ignorance. It’s too bad no one can feel pain from it. It was love, at first sight, and everything turned into beauty. It littered this land. Staurating the poets of thoughts of grandeur. Free to be wild. Locked in the heart to be tamed and own, for me, shivering in my frame, providing aesthetic to reality. Burning the sky, dnce all crazy, eyes on fire, we got them in a trance and impending doom of death, drips and melts away. Pulling in dramatic tension towards us, melodramatic and meticulous in our love for one another, ourselves dripped and personally forgotten in the presence of the other. We had broken the fuse of life, it’s living spark, to any predestined wants of it, created our own, anywhere we went, turned to romantic pilgrimage, and finally for the first time, any flaws of life, any poverty, burden or burning want, left, as we shrugged our shoulders, smiling at one another. We have and are, fully absent of any muse that we had once, prior to meeting thee and used for earthly wants and values. Like Milton said, do not think about morals, for they the ability to think about themselves. And our souls, larger than Rome, stronger than any empire. This isn’t a result of dreams, we had lived in reality and said no-more. Because it didn’t watch the throne. What do you do when the willingness to live, turns into something of no more? We just replaced the reality of life and created our own. For the mind is in a place of its own, to what comes into fruition, tangible and touchable. I’ll wonder deeper. Awake and rise. For this isn’t to copy. Something to leave behind. Perhaps this adds charm, shade to the stillness parts of life, colour to the darkness. A feeling of perfection to anything that may of so seemingly born lifeless. And ever since I’ve been left alone, I’ve come to grips in solitude. Out of truth, until this day, I have no idea how to articulate true love, I tell myself, something so beautiful can’t be express in poetry. And if it isn’t true love. I don’t want to know. It’s allowing to continue to believe in love, remaining here under its spell and that we all have a soulmate here, waiting to be discovered. My heart will ache until I find thee. Yes, I’ve heard it’s dangerous to romanticize one’s own past, have it brew to the surface of old sensations, from the secret depths of my own soul, alluring our attention to it and placing a veil to the future, maybe why we romanticize the past, is a simple reminder that life isn’t so bad. Perhaps I’m just a foolish romantic, an expression-mirage of hope. As the thoughts of love, keep coming, I’ll continue to walk, if it’s in exile, alone, parting from everything that I had become accustomed to, let it be. But at least I don’t refuse the potential of life’s fruits and to what I can bear with my own hands.  When it’s in love, anyone can farewell to hope and fear, for the very last time. In heartbreak moments, its singing of torment and personal chaos, collapsing of my private world. To which I deemed valuable on any night meant for you and I to share love. **** and full of fashion. Of how much pain the heart can stand, imagine the experience of tightening strings to crack like glass to the point of no-return. Miserable in the infinity. Just to devour anything worthy of oneself. Huddling together with the darkness and whisper between ourselves. Than by force, burden humanity. And a good poem is the blood for any romantic, but it’s forgotten when love is currently being enjoyed. To the unbearable doubt, I’ll not fall victim to, poetic, I’m fraile inside, like we all are. They’ll be no heros if our inner-worlds weren’t such soft touches of complete tenderness. Mingling glories. Kiss me now. I’ll smile for you than. What is it mean that someone is clingy? Perhaps there is nothing for them. Maybe they had just saw for what I’m worth and saw nothing but beauty. For that, there is nothing else for them, besides to infuse romance. Just wanting to leave me breathless. Tenor for rose beds, shepherd to anything the world made of beautiful, touch it, it will multiple. The breath of life. Hollering at moon on the roof. For the reminds me, of what he thought of me, when he first saw me. But I always answer in response, ‘what about now’. Lowering his head, resting on his arm, hiding his smiling. To which reminds me, it’s always getting better. Like the revolving poems. In spontaneous overflow of something we can’t control. What is the paramount goal between lovers? To self discover? To know another? Be poetic in one’s actions? Oh musing poetry, how can we know how to love thee? How to live? How to write poetry for thee? Now I see the value of peering into the arts made from any romantic period. But what does it mean to pass those poems by? Losing all value of life. It's just passing moments, threading together, stuck to the forefront of my mind, I’m unable to forget. So I lose sense of time and daily obligation. Smoking magic. Spellbound. I’m fully alive and aware now. Constant. There is no change. I’m unable to forget. Though let me breathe in that breathe, an intoxicating perfume. Extravagance. Blunt in twilight. Pierce through obscurity. Temptation to praises. Holding lovers hand under sunlight and moonlight. Pitchy. Eyes convicted of seeing the endgame of beauty, never to look away. Containing fairy tales in dreams, the ability to stain the earth with it. Got to be carefully not to let the evil of this life and earth trap thy. And all I wanted to say to my lover, before I told him, that his voice is my favourite sound, is to say simple words like I love you. So when you see me, our dreams will flicker like the stars of the night, never to fade and when the sun rises, the golden dawn between us, will expand the sun’s glory. In clarity of mixed feelings, we had lived dormant and a calm temperament, contempt to achieve earthly success, to which our heart could never be satisfy with. Drowning in oceans of filling hearts by love, produced by one another. When you’re in love, the world is yours and it spins around. But when one’s heartbreaks, nothing but numbness and you’re alone. Late night, bright lights, lust and lies, everyone with their hands out, no one is giving, but I cannot blame people for trying to get what they can. Loving seeing your lovers smile. Anything goes under this shared sky, who knows what you’ll find. I’m just distilled in poetry. Needing one single kiss and I’ll open my arms, present myself so proudly. As for the naturally wonder, they’ll blink, display itself for everyone, jealous as we walk away. But when your heat breaks, everything is gone and nothing ever seems to matter, plucked into forever. And all wanted, nothing within poetry, is to love. Can one ever get blamed for that? It’s as natural as being born and to die. To my doubt, that no matter how I live, do not engage with me, on how I’m supposed to be. Cello symphonies, tenors. Can I survive a misspirit? Oh for what I’m I really waiting for? For when you open your heart, look how they try to play me, write a couple a poems, now they wave at me. I’ve had my heartbroken, to lovers smiles. From a romantic in desituition, to someone's love. Experience in musings. And to every step I take. Just want to tread over romance and transition into poetry. Smile for me now. From a trembling throb, shaking hands, strengthening of heart, it’s enough for me to know that I exist, not to be contained in any single moment. Do we really know life? I just want love. For poetry, I’m happy to hand out freely. To be beautiful, it’s when one glares at you, to be valued, is for when one knows you. For that, lover? Maybe? Otherwise, it’s not the purpose of existence to be either beatiful or valued for the outside. To which, I can easily do either. A free woman in this unfree world, would be a woman dreams never dared to speak to. A daughter of muses. Dreaming about the romance world. My mind goes boom! For me in the world of romance. To doubt should be a sin. Not to be brave enough to follow through, a sin. Refusing faith that we’re all meant to be for another as a soulmate. A unique miracle for another’s life. For a romantic, a day without love is like no salt on the road for the saint. Ever since adolescence, calling out for my soulmate, until he returns, it’s all eyes on me. I desire, so therefore, I exist in something of an aura, taking in this world’s pressure, without a sound, I slide, I’m unbreakable. It’s not that I can’t make it on my own. I’ve tasted love and earth or this life, cannot provide and other contentment, melting over in illumination. It’s incarnate and inherent. I’ve measured my own worth and dream of someone better. And if they’re less, better go to work to match my eyes. Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains were the common sense should have been, where anticipation of love making sessions isn’t our greatest pleasures. Unstained by fulfillment for what we can do for each other. When I was younger, my hunger was to let loose in exile, catch me if you can, I giggle at those more vulnerable and impression years. Demand in the present, higher status in the future. Narration of poetry in soft whispers. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world. As for me. I created a love no other human can ever attain, so I’ve replaced every muse that had ever existed. No longer to question my own existence. The lover yet not conceptualize in my hands, is just another unexplored land of flesh and character. Waking each day, a little more, living, movements under the eyes, flicker of light. I gasp and breathe in. Somnolent gestures, it’s a little more urgent and intense, somethings different. More raw and upfront. I’ve loathed and now no more. Piano keys pressed. Heat rises, rains felt colder. Die another day. I huffed and puffed. I came to grips for the life I had live. Parted from it. Moving fingers to wave goodbye. I smiled. For love is funny. It’s comes out of nowhere, at the silliest times, from the most random people, like a fluke. Flutes and melody, along piano keys. Love, hitting me hard, never to leave. Asking in cliches, ‘where have you been my whole life?’ Finally, without effort, a man to understand, even from the smallest glimpses of glance, a single touch, a soft spoken word. Loving each other, not knowing how, but we do. In balance, obliges his self-care, never to allow me to struggle in my own wants of life. Understanding in instant flutters of fury and still yearning for more.  And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders; I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur. I see him as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire. Filling out my meaning in his living action. To each look, it’s like the first time, in the last few moments, glancing at me, like it his final outlook on life. Our love, devoted to life, but we couldn’t accept life and it’s demands, so, we devoted ourselves, to one another, and it wasn't enough, so, we committed ourselves to holy love and rose above anything that had once been considered as limitations. Dripped off the sides, in alluring colours to the cosmos, left, in supernova fashions and drifted into mythological fame. As we should. Love hits hard, it hits fast and in unexpected times from the most unexpected people. Most of all, it was horrifying at first, made only for the brave, for those who have never tasted love. It’s like, seeing eternity, mastering it and got all the time in forever to stand and glare out to the immense sky. Careful in one’s manner, so no one will notice, eyes opened wide, never to shut, like if I have found creation more than I could explain. The sting of a poem. Why so often my thoughts flustered. Once went everywhere, unrecognised. Time slows. Instead of a mocking face. I regretted nothing in past loves. I am happy that I had an effort. Are the ones too concerned with these earthly concerns. I doubt would ever be themselves, let alone be in love. Don’t ****** me. Now it’s time to be a ghost. For the devil greatest magic, to have the faith that he doesn’t exist. Filtered through my demonic mouth, this is the end and I know how cultures die. This beautiful sigh. A firefly kingdom. Will it be like this, when I cross over to another place? Grief at lost love, when I’m capable of loving now. I’m the romantic, leaning against poetry, filled with love, whisper it’s tone with meaning. Wet summer in low times. Lover without love. Paralysed at my core. Those who glimpsed inside, know of senseless violence. Eyes that not dare no more to meet mine. Pendlum swinging, more selmn than the sfiting emotions. Do not come close to me. Deliberate gestures in the dark. Behaving like the gloom of failure. I know how the world ends. Artists, raise images as homage to death. Is it like this, on the other side, trembling with sobs. No prays to be heard. Valley of dead bodies, steaming ash, sizzling skin to bones. They never talk. Lifeless. Spasm in Zion. rapture over earth, screams from the religious, who pledged their lives to their dogma, slapped in the face. Shadows. Life is short. Between the desire and the action, I’m there, existing. I’m the essence of your desires. I’m breeding new kingdoms. Whimper in public, no-one will hear. For Zion has forgotten you. For I know how the world ends.  
(knowledge variable)

To smile, while sitting the corner,
alone and crying, it's hard to live,
because when is in love, it's nothing
but grief, a blessing and a burden.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BtS0z4J0UWE

Oh how grey life can get, with the scent of death to stink
on, maybe it’s too much of a good thing. Like a village
missing it’s idiot, narrow and intense at the best of times.
And if a poem is hungry, it will be kissing anyone, strangers
or friends, just to comfort those private pains. It’s okay
to have a low tolerance for pain, at least the beauty of
small things get noticed. But the breathe of few, could
ever stir the insides up, motivating one to part everything
that had ever worked for
(knowledge variable)

A life comes to a stop, dry and still air, manifest and illumination, I’m in freedom and in searching wonders that has a stream of meditation, laughing clowns and sadening circus performers.

I’ve written poetry different from how I would speak in person and whenever I do speak, it’s different to thoughts that speak inside. All connected but sounding different. Sparked from isolated darkness and the devil's details. I Won't bother to explain, even if I did, you won’t understand

All poetry is a poor translation from one’s emotions.

Perhaps to the first step to an awakening, is to notice death is coming and that’s always coming for you

When I write, I always end up in a cold abyss, a freezing world, where I’m always alone, despite how many people that love my work.

There’s are infinite amount of paradoxes for us here, perhaps it’s not all for us, they’re just dream-like figures in the wild and unable to be touched. Guilt.

Love is a real killer, it utterly destroys everything you’ve worked towards and devalues everything outside that world between you and your soulmate, rendering it to decay, in dryness and whimpers. And if the love isn’t real. Don’t do it. It will only end up in heartbreak and striking you a certain bitterness, you’ll be unable to shift.

If a man takes on the world, to beat the world, to box it, to fight it, always place at least one grand on the world. The individual will always shiver and frail to the collective

To the point in heartbreak, suffering
and seemingly endless, I guess there
is always a point, we all reach. Where
we all get, a private demon, that rides
us, torments us, well, until the end
that is. Like that split second, when
we hear the final melodies played
by Du Pre. And that demon is particular,
knowing all our gentle spots in our
souls, where our lover once touched
touched, kissed and breathed upon.
For a small moment in the spectrum
of time, we forgot about our private
pains, and let go, becoming slightly
more fuller of our real selves. ‘But that
is not meant to be’, said the Bluebird
chirping on the branch, as the serpent
directed us out of Eden.
(knowledge variable)

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)

How you love yourself, won’t be the
same when it comes to others, to
cry, internally or even sobbing out an
ocean, you’ll be alone, despite any
helping hand. As for poetry, still, I’ll
take my comfort there.

I’ve always considered sin is to avoid
the beauty, perhaps to prevent flowers
to bloom, never to hold a conversation,
never to look inside, never to meditate,
perhaps to what I thought sin is, is not
written. Perhaps it’s inside of me. The
duality of everything. Starting a riot
with oneself, duck taping one’s real character,
I’d rather learn to what I can take, when
I finally cross over and pray in the meantime,
that both Heaven and Hell will let me in.
And the prays are howling to the moon, sobs
to drown the ocean, dreams in the sleeping
Visions. That love to make any other love
seem so irrelevant. Praying for everything
to simultaneously happen now, except the
Forgiveness of sin. Feel each word to
each poem ever written.  
(knowledge variable)

If I could start from scratch, I’ll rage war earlier in attempts to conquer my own flaws, in order to be pillar and make something of myself, be a blessing to those I dare open up to, as some have been to me, growing pains is in retrospect, but I guess a contribution to youth is always adjoined to learning. If I could start from scratch, I’ll celebrate my 18th by vowing to stay clean, showing up to recovery and never saying a single to word any other in those rooms. If I could start my life from scratch, I would learn about death, growing my learning thoughts to its definition and learn how to die. We all die one day. And I’ll open up death’s fade. It isn’t a crime unless if they catch you. If you live for yourself, you’ll die in shame. If I could start from scratch, I’ll hug every person who is kind enough to say hello. If I could start my life from scratch, I’ll value reading poetry, for the sake of the poet, who had spent their entire time, articulating the world’s thoughts that are mixed in with emotions. I’ll respect the Devil, because truth doesn’t change and faith isn’t required when it comes to it. For now, if you get too close, I’ll clap you. And wouldn’t reside to victimhood when I got to leave home, because they had no money and the lack of understanding others leaves room of void, no one will truly know until we all trade places. Life isn’t promised, I’m still blessed to every dollar I’m getting. And I’m still being guilty of being anxious. I’ve given up on getting a fair go. Reality demands something else to what society gives back, the duality of humanity, breeds fair go to those who develop originality. To soak up pain, is to understand, but I wouldn’t dare to sing gospel, I’ll sit quite, because I heard that when one weeps, you’re alone. I heard a blast. When I die, I want to be a living legend. For they try to **** me. If I could start my life from scratch, I wouldn’t prevent myself from falling down, I’ll come to grips with it.There’s no other feeling like getting up and trying again.  Than again, I could part from my past, but never to replace it, so coast to coast, before going broke, I’ll ****** their wallets and run. Than focus on dying without a whimper.
(knowledge variable)

Real tenderness can be perceived, longing affection, like how overused a glance is used in the romance genre, oh how else is lover supposed to start? For what I’m I supposed to do, when she’s not around? So I write poetry to help pass the time. I want to bask and yawn in paradise, as for me, I dare to dream on her, sweet honey kisses, though until it’s in actions, there is nothing wrong with romanticizing upon her, poetry is comfort until she glances attention, shifting my emotions from terror of angst to perhaps life isn’t so bad. Do I dare to glare inside her secret eyes? Secrets, secrets, secret inside. Do I dare wonder how many had dared to do the same? As I watch her turn away, as my heartbreaks in two. It’s only earthly sadness in eternal war. I’ll breathe in the moon, I’ll breathe in the sun, ******* in all of life’s beauty. For it’s only temporarily compensations. I’ll report back to poetry. For love isn’t meant for some strange land, some dream we all experience, a yearning or a sigh. Love was made to be held in our hands and experienced.
(knowledge variable)

Such an earthly being, noticing the frozen outside those
graves, no one to help cure, no poet for comfort, as for
myself, a mere echo, the afternoon, golden vast, peering
up, for I’m too used for angst and grief, oh reality, it is
tiring engaging with those emotions. Sigh. Flowers with
frozen dew on top, effort none, lost beauty, source mixing
well, intertwined with mystery, grips and holding onto,
loss of time is a loss of life, potential and so forth, I’m
holding a faithful longing, that things will brighten, matching
that sun that rises daily. Enlarged silence. For my inner
world does not match the outside, neither in the vice versa.
Wonder if I shall quit?  
(knowledge variable)

There are some that can smile in such glory, they lifted
the dead from their nuesa-sleeping. Breathing motivation
to live again. Bitter only in the time they missed out on.
Reciting poetry from the other side. As for the one who
can bring the dead alive, for I have not meet them. Just
dreamt about them.

Thoughts of love, no other feeling I’ve ever wanted,
to love ceaselessly and in ease, to be loved back
without fear of finding my flaws, no-insecurity to
fill out the void between us, because if it’s true love,
everything else will be parted from and we’ll have
nothing else to do and to feel. In melodramatic uplifting,
passing the Shakespearean drama, sonnets kiss us,
they’re in ode to the love we produce, on fire our
hearts, passion reaching for storms, flushed and
heavy. Wishing that our past when we never had one
another would be forgotten now, rather than later.
My hopes, my dreams, my yearnings had already
gone into exile, lover lay, lover fly, high pelican, high
like heaven, cry now? What for? Smiles swirl with
the smoke from our heat, muted silences, speak loud,
whisper now, scream louder, is it fate? Or is our love
by accident? With the Angels singing, it doesn’t seem
to matter. No longer does our shadows shape, the
soulmate we had always craved. And every poets knows
about us. Cello symphonies, harmony in the colours
they choose to paint, I say it’s for you lover, but never
are you to accept that, Muses that we replace say it’s
the ******* sessions we do. Something we have,
humanity can’t. Beauty wild in simple, complex to others,
as it was once to me, it’s something I didn’t determine,
now it’s the cause of my distractions, fly more, high now,
my blood is stronger,  until your beauty formed in the
speech of your tongue, now I can’t stop the words I love
you so. Because it’s life for me. Now you spoil me. With
nothing to offer you in return, besides my loyalty. Firefly
rustles. The only pray I got to say, other than wanting to
be holy, after easter comes, is that I just can’t die now,
I’ve always wanted to live fully and free, in her arms,
for I’ve found my own safety, maybe this is too much of
a good thing, at least now I got something to die for.
Lovers got to watch the throne, we got pistols under those
pillows, nobody likes the ones in love, conformity hurts
when they witness those to live out as they see fit.
Dusts of history slowing dying, noticed in those sunlight
beams, violet and smelling of gold in those moonlight
silver, birthing our own romance, we’re the honey and
silk when it comes to freedom in reality. Our souls are the
church in the wild, permitting rebirths and forgiving the
bite marks in apples, the love to tempt the devil himself.

Resist against part of the mind, you’re unable to achieve in mastering, like it’s been said before. ‘It’s too bad, ignorance isn’t painful.’ The snake, the rat, the cat, the goat, how are you going to see the dogs, if you’re living in the fog? Poetry cannot solely be the image of heartbreaks and new love. Nobody wants your dance or poetry kisses. Who’s your biggest fan? This life is brief and it’s pain runs deep. Drowning in effort, over the duration of you life, starlight turmoil, commit to art and die in glory. Every poem should now be on the theme of remembering, death is always definite, as for the immortality in this world, it’s soul-selling. People smile until others forget their name. Only poetry can read my mind, fewer friends will know that and only my lover can reach my inner-world, it’s my style. Life happens will it’s self-discovery or self-destructing and I’ll ride or die and best feeling I’ve ever had, is when I turn a new leaf, forgetting the world I’ve parted with, until I learn how normal the new are. We’re not vibing. Do not enter art, you’ll be poor of wealth, as for most, that’s what they value, how to measure success, few can achieve what some had already have. As for my lover, I cannot give gifts of these world, so, I only give my own words, forming poetry of high beauty, to which they’ll never articulate the sensations of touching illumination that you have given me, but they’ll do for now, poems unseen in this world. True kunst are in their everyday actions, grandeur happens, when the world turns and notices, and a smile is produced, it won’t last long, some of us like to read, but ignorance is always easy, it will be.
(knowledge variable)

When can a poem begin? In a dry throat,
knowing what words to say or does it begin
from finished experiences? Want to leap out
in far reaching forms in it’s enlarged arms,
full of thought and emotion. And if it’s fulfilling,
profond wisdom can be there, in complete
ways. For when I die, I wish for people not
to weep for me, for I’ve gone, I wish they’ll
forget, despite how easy it is to find me.
Coast to Coast, I’m across those harsh plains,
heavy torrent, ask the exiles. Between birth
and death. Everyday lived, is mine and if
I’m love, it’s between me and thy lover. For
I have something and went to it, ask the Devil,
I had grown tired of lost words or knowing
what I should’ve said, I've danced with the
Devil. People always want to change but
remain the same. The truth will be not be found,
until it’s believed, as for that, humanity can
avoid it, along with reality. Do not weep for
me, for I’ve crossed over and wish never to
be spoken to, I’m not hard to find, I chosen
something most fail to see. As for poetry, the
best kind is always a paradox and mystics is
too good.
(come creep with me)

At times poetry, I need something more than the courage
to endure what life presents itself to me, a series of events, for I want to be my own
    person, than being apart of something larger
    the only thing I can do good
     Is writing something in poetics.    
The wonder is filled with everything I don’t know. Initiated now as a outlaw.
Poetry, kiss me, breathe inside with cello melodies, haunting fashions, not of trends. I’m content to say good-bye.  Parting memories. Until the end of time.
Maybe it’s the individual in me.
We all wish for the pain to go away, but I cannot under it, all the time.
In those lonely times and facing death, the tears, the sadness, the regrets, wanting redemption and complete forgiveness, wanting to start from scratch. It’s all the same thing shared in humanity. We’re all going to die.
Rare is the one that wants forgiveness for the everyone involved with life.
I’m a kisser of romance. I’m a ******. It's easy to fall in love. As for that. I’ve been behind closed doors with most that I meet. The heart wasn’t built for heartbreak and the secrets of others.                      The civil servant, the priest, the maid of honour, the best man, whoever, they should up forced, press upon, harsh and hard thoughts and the spouse should always second guess. Until all that lust is cleanse out.                       Oh how little love there is in today's marriage. I’m laughing as a ******. Strapped with poetry and I romantic lean back, hanging with original romantics. Giving love only to purest romantics. They’ve got no love for you.
                                           Life itself, a blessing and a burden.
                                           It’s the same for everyone you know.
                                           For I felt the most holy feeling any
                                           Human could feel for another. And it allowed me to hold faith that everyone has a soulmate, someone that is just made for them. Wondering this earth’s surface.
The world is overfilling itself with people and life.
Grandeur in poems that are written and left for everyone to find.
Everyone is capable of sinning.
Knowing the Devil.
Trust me, not everyone wants you to be an individual, unless it’s like them.
A talent show, no. make waffles, with my hands, poems are my wetspot, don’t miss the chance to walk away into the world, there’s better things, but it’s a matter of how you think, don’t forget, yourself has to go with your better. If there’s a revolution going on, join in, even if it’s evil, there is revenge, but there’s something satisfying about seeing your teachers upset and especially seeing for the first time, they’re not as cracked up to be higher and holy. Life has a veil. I *** hard, like Lisa Simpson, I’ve meet Princess Di and it’s the first thing I said. And prayed harder for Princess Kelly, but I said it in neither English or French.
(knowledge variable)

My own importance to the world is small and stupor to some, slithe and soothing to my own essence, diamonds in the lights, aligning stars in the night.
        
                                 Wonder what it takes to come alive
                                                              And it usually something simple

                Lovers with unqualified praise that never deny potent poetry

I often kiss her, not to taste her, I often want to escape, so I dream to diver into her soul. Glorious treat, outshining caviar. It’s when anything exotic is devalued. To be accepted with a sinful past, clean smile, a rapture in one’s life, to fall in love and to be loved greater back.  Awakening transforming period, to impress any Mystic, there’s forever and I hold it, if only I praise her, how I’m I supposed to use it otherwise?

    A golden mask, hides sin
                                           Love is for the brave with sin in their soul
                                           Life is given freely.
                                           Oh poetry, you can never express what I feel for her.
Pure love produces the highest forms of poetry
And the lovers heartbeat, causes tremors everywhere, including the cosmos
that permit every supernova to move.

As for the rest this, love is meant to be experienced and never to be told to others.

Experience is only for poetry, as for poetry, it seeks
only to express love and knowing it will always fail,
while it privately yearns to experience it. Fast and long.
Pain is deep. Flanking fans. Stupor and drop. But as
for love, it only knows forever and laid in cement in the
culture of romance as poetry is it’s breathe.

Sorrow belongs to people, being frantic in despairing
disappointment, belong to love being turned down, as
memory is recorded, immortal image of love. Flee from
me.

Life is everything of a broken pieces
of connected beauty. Not only for poets,
awes, moan and lovers. There is no such
thing of a precise speech, not even in poetry,
plus, the power lays with the others.
Sigh.

Pain is long and deep, it broadens itself, at self-will, running wild

      motivating any artist to dream, poets dream long and before acting with
grandeur and in youth, there’s nothing but dreams,

                                      as lust doesn’t cost a thing    until all that youth drys up

and the ability to stop dreaming isn’t felt, just aging

to achieve harmony in this life, one must struggle for years, especially in poetry, where they can all articulate love, like the Tenor or the Cellist, over composed symphonies. And the ******’s praise them all.

                               my heart is in my hand, because it’s pierced
                               those who have content, are the ones who
                               dared to live in the first place and I’m still hung
                               up on you, because those who’ve lived, seem
                               to have experienced love, my heart is caught
                               providing a helping hand to write any poem.


      People had made love without poetry, because lust is easier.

                              And when awareness kicks in, it will be too late and poets join time to mock them with heavy laughter.


    
                  I grow tired of waiting, fatigued after actions with efforts of affection


Life goes on


No-one likes the lovers lost in love, because it reminds them,
of what they don’t have, wondering if the love is wild and roaring
or if it took their youth to tame. No one likes the lovers lost
in love, because it can devalue any romantic piece, those
lovers in ****** acts, intimately fusing their souls together,
getting to know the ecstasy of illumination and addicted to
sparking awakening in each other. For no one likes anyone
in love, for their souls are free and without void and despair,
so they shun those lovers out, in return those lovers build
a world of their own, forgetting the earth for the rest of
humanity, never to fit in again. Can you love a smile? Can
you love a glance? Holding hands? Would you tame beauty?
For without love, the law means nothing and the poets will
turn out as serial killers. For no one likes people being truly
in love, because it reminds them what’s without.

                          I can read any poem, for such things as love, is not written,
   only expressed in actions, whispered in the ears of night,
                                 spoken by the mouths, who’ve been to the horizon
                                 and back.
Only in love, where it can strip anyone down to the ****, bearing to the world, all their faults, sins, mistakes and regrets, revealing all their secrets and transcend into a saint. A Muse for the world. I don’t know about you, to what I think about those first kisses between yourself and your lover, is conversation  between Angels, closing lips, each other’s breathes felt lightly pressed upon skin, and the Angels sing when the lips are closed, holding hands and finally the delicate souls can meet and begins to feel safe for the first time.
             And everyday sounds, turn into love songs, that we’ve grown to accustom
  to listen to, without knowing their meaning. Living now, like life ends at the end of the day, you can blame fate for falling in love or you could just go out and experience love. It’s a place that we all ache to go, twinge at the sight of it, love involves the energy of any supernova that births beauty on site, creating memories for poets, adding
charm to this present, parenting the future, dragging things up from the heart, when we dared not to and finally for the first time, you shrug your shoulders and let go.

                            As for anyone telling that you have to work for love.
                            Slap them as hard as you can. Than recommend them
                            a good lawyer and a young lover for their spouse.

(knowledge variable)

Without the strangeness of that horrifying feeling
about truly fully in lover, that bears me ****,
life would be dull and I dare say, pointless. For
poets singing music and forgetting about writing,
are generally the ones that have dived deep.
For the tenor never singing again, weeping as
they write love poems for thy lovers. I could not
live in a world, where everybody wears the same
face.
(knowledge variable)

For those with another, without any real love,
for how you have fallen for life’s cruel tricks,
another giggle from mocking time. Things fall
apart, is what death tells me as the poet cries,
forming articulated words of love. For how things
sway me. But not in faith that real love exists.
Knowing not what to decide, those idles who
provide a veil of love, or those who suffer by
following that veil, with red robes and a mind of
hope.
(knowledge variable)

As for freedom, I’ll accept being hellbound
if I won’t be heldown. Since that life is based
on sinning, on ancient scrolls, turning *** to crack,
until the militant mind, my private machiavelli
returns, it’s all eyes on thy soulmate. As being a
natural born romantic, I’ll trade freedom for one
moment with such person, enslaved to one single
moment of Heavenly presence, making all poets
chant songs of envy, causing the mundane to
rethink their entire life. For I shall subscribe to
liberty for the heat of my soul, whether it’s in my
personal temptation, known for flashing or for thy
love of my life. The world is mine and my own status
is determined by the quality of my thinking. I’ve
learnt how to live with the time given to me and
fear only never to live. I’ll be real, living or dead.
To anyone trying to prevent, I’ll destroy everything
that you touch. Against all odds, I’ve peered behind
the curtains and dare to continued.
(knowledge variable)

1 -

No glares of missing eyes, just the one, at the center that soars high. Mst of all. It fles, careless and free. It’s hands pills precious wine, as it recites poetry about the end times. Conjure up as emotions of failures and shame, meet within. Not million, in fact in the billions dismissed the thought of arrival. Shutter in fear and weep to each word spoken, in that poem, that recites, in every detail, how your life will end. It’s tongue, doesn’t skip a beat, rhymes perfectly, in every human tongue. Though it’s a tyrant, some have complete devotion to such creature, redish aura over a dark shape. The eagles seem to cry. Rats and cats run to it, to pay their own homage. Fogs and dogs, mist and a devilishly ******* smell. Pigs talk and end up screaming about sacrifice. Such is early talks, of such end times. Prone to sudden fits of rage, wearing cold ****** to the creature, is as natural to him, as breathing is to you. Gold, *** with virgins, praises will be used, more valuable to what had just been written, one’s own soul, nothing in this life is free, everyone was given life, despite never asking for it. Master of famine, king and queen to poverty, dreamer user, inventor and distributor of disease. When voted in men and women give in, trenches of brave people, rage war, knowing privately they’ll fail. Still they try. No one is truly pious, it will take more than forever to master that trait and so very few are blessed with immorality. This creature has the attributes of a supreme leader, just without its own kingdom. For in no dogma, no myth, no whispers of physical storytelling knows of such creature, no prophecy, nothing, not even in Nostradamus. Endless it seems, for it walked to the horizon and back, perhaps it comes from the other side of the moon. Trembling slaves in chant in joy, from learnt pleasure and addicted to a self-produced evil, after so much, they grow to love, follow the creature, sweeping down to help. Fine, call it demons if you must, for most, that's the best their own imagination can conceptualize. People are their prized pleasures to take with them and eventually turn into them. Lust can be good. We’ve got something inherent in us and encourages us to be a bit more carnel, sinful, selfish and so on. Most just keep it a bit better kept, inside the privacy of their own home. After-all, in a democratic system, ****** got vote in. not in vain read this, do not concern yourself from where, how or why I write this. Death will come, the end of the world will come, just ask yourself, what will come first? Work for everything, but cherish nothing. In the transition, you’ll never be permitted to take anything with you. Just your soul to what makes you good and your sins to which you've committed, and will atone for at gunpoint. When you hear your fate, life will either be a total blessing or something completely unjust. Both will last forever after death or the end times. Solemn. Poets, be master of your word, painters, be master of your strokes, musicians, be master of each note. Do not live in angst people, life will be better before this time, without anxiety, at least some joy will be experienced and not something to be yearning for. Wild beasts will come and **** your first daughter and chop off the private of your first born. Without a care and it’s master will teach them how. Humanity is only a glint. One glint. Like a star. Pretty from a distant, something to philosophize over, than learn, but close at face sight, the star is already dead. Whoever said the struggle will stop today? A-lot of Mystics dead and never to be martyred. Plus, you don’t have any gold to give away, so you can remove your past. Underslung sky, now is not the time for fear, that comes later. Desolate intense resent nothing at the same time of everything. Bloated with both virtue and lust. Malice. For life wanted melody, instead, people got malady. The creature stepping over earth's land, people run, as that very military shoots and ending fail. It’s not monster film. People run, some stop to pay homage and offer their souls, as the so called demons **** them up, those people turn to sin and **** in **** form and iron race, become. For some, if they’re going to be talented, it’s far better to be such of someone in great fame, to things they've always wanted to do to one another. Most people die. The creature sets up camp, Astana. Takeover and demands complete and whole obedience. Holy books burn. Slaves for the rest still living, though mostly dark ashes fall from the sky, grey colour themes, burning bodies left on the ground and homeless children asking for their mothers walk, all people see is their personal fear. Lukewarm life is at best. Daring not to live anymore or any better. Once a servant to one's life, now just a servant to dying days. Violet in all violence. Voiceless tears inside interior chambers, cry private prays, not even confessing to one another, muted silence between people, saturate this earth. Marching to Zion, they’ve given up. And no network of hope or revolt. In harmony, all remaining poets weep at a blanket and shared evil, that everyone is experiencing under this rule. To the police, in tempest wrath, those demons that tagged along. This is a neo-empire outshining those before. It’s a shame that stupidity isn’t painful to one’s whole entire essence. Wanting avator’s. Getting none. Over a thousand year period, lavish pillars rise, it’s that humanity forgot about the godhead-figure, they simply forget. New omens provide a new scent for earth. Astana remains the capital of earth. With different races of tiled skin, phishing tongues, tall, green. Peoples private hell is prolonged. The rich **** any animal and tear off their skin, use it as fur coats, they smile. So let’s take a trip, where anyone can **** limp, ******* in public and spend money on any mofoe. Getting lonely, I can’t control it, pass me the blunt, let me roll it. Perhaps it;s doubt in anything that will bring pain, not knowing the truth that I had been hoping for to bring me freedom. Supreme leader is now the title of the creature. And everywhere he goes, are ****** ******, both men and women, preferably if they were under the age of sixteen. Because they haven’t been broken. With no floods, no locus, some disease, ****** became normal and a bit of ****. No money, a lot of silver, a neo royalty line is produced amongst people’s blood, the half cast between those demons and virgins, both male and female. Swallowing eternity. As any prince would laugh. Though from the sky, the earth is drowsed with new philosophy. In textile fields, elderly women tend to those fields, all missing one eye and stuck in old age forever. As young boys run naked around neo palace’s. Just only entertainment. Writers invent new tragedy stories, abated pale, blue and pure. Misting stageplays for giggles and laughing till it hurts in the stomach that encourages everyone who watches to give into lust. Like we’re all meant to do. Along watery plateau,  different breed of Mystics walk, those born in the world before that survived the initial stages, ate eagle eyes and living now, until time decides to stop mocking everyone and finally give up and provide the final solution. Under red dusk, those know most things are propaganda, freedom inside someone’s *******. ***** everywhere. Like steam leaking from any paved roads and newly built cities. Images strung from the air that remind people, peasants too be honest, that we all can die. Disc of time. Burnt colours. Nothing said about hope, love and romance. No weddings. As for babies, they pop up at random places, roads, dumpsters, fields with goats, public toilets and the nile. To whoever finds them first, by law they are the new parents. **** is punishment if those do not take the babies. **** kittens. Rereading of Ovid. Talk of having Latin as one language, going beyond this world. And Helen is her name. Streams of Blood. Phinx is his name. My king, my queen. What tears can bore? The dooming death and nothing forces us to change or to know, nothing greater than pain. Bore. shame and exile to those who age. Life is not for them to claim, old-fashioned school of thought, doub their words. Until a neo-poet rises from the ash below, drops of stars and Lions stand on their tongue, not from wrestling but out of respect, breed of new prophet in these times of neo-dogma. Revolt personally as a single person in revolution. People to pray to this poet as they write words on the second renaissance, where only those born to create great works of beauty to walk this earth, like Monks in a monastery. At the moment, until it defeats the creature, monster to any god, it's only a moment or glimmer of hope. One hero, born under one tree. Weaving thoughts of romance, soulmate to those with intelligence, poetic to the poor and match to one only, no-one else. Most of all, birthing life for those who deserve it.
(knowledge variable)

Thou Shall not avoid one’s destiny, Thou Shalt not turn face behind closed doors. The walls have ears, from those from the other side have planted eyes there. You think those people know better, because they’re older than I am, hate to be a burden, but you giving illusions to construct my character to a lesser version is a cultural sin and I’m happy to be cutting your throats over those preventing my own destiny and that’s real. Because I’ve seen the other side and they all have mocking faces, just like what time does. Against all odds for I have prevailed everything at all costs and parted from this earth without the transition of death. You’re not live like me. Your secrets, out of the closet, close your mouth. You can tell you wife whatever you want. But everything past or present comes to the light. Can’t player hate on me. To the Mystics, they know the difference between me and you. Light skin, socky, with a Haitian accent, known for flashing. Working for the revolution, still I snitch, you tricks can never shut me up, touch one of mine, I’ll destroy everything you love. Same trail, just different courts, picture what he said. I’ll be real, a legend, living or dead. God don’t like ugly, but you can meet the Devil before death. For those who don’t rhyme right, seen too many movies. BANG-BANG. Forgive, for they’re trying to **** me. Not for the revolution or that other side. Now I got two rottweilers next to my bed as I sleep. Mystic poets done in the dark. They can paint in you in red and your another dead laymen. Lurking on you, as they break bread with Gods. Because actions speak louder than actions.  Just started form initiation of an outlaw immortal. Seeing the grander things of ending times. Passing the period of the biblical rapture. I’ve awaken, risen and it’s a choice not to fall. I can remember those boys trying to get me in thy sleep, my buddy has no heart, it was in the middle of the Cross, they talked loud till my buddy starting popping off, scattering pedestrians. Those peasants now wish they never stuck their heads out the door. Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Stakes, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month ******* for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-*****?Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan Oscar Wilde? Devil is happy when the critics run you off your feet, poor God, getting blamed for all the world's misfortunes. As for me, I’m in the middle and produced something duality. For joined the Outlaw Mystics, where humanity calls mad and all those religious peasants shun us out and anyone, regardless of side know better, they all tempt our souls, but I only mock them, cause they know I’ve reached immortality and I laugh.

I heard a rumour that I died, murdered and shot,
to lay in cold blood. Everything weeps, for when
they shouldn’t. But it’s all fiction. Someone had
gotton the story twisted and chanted that I no
longer exist. I’m not hard to find. For when I die,
I want to be a living legend. To lead ways of wild,
into the blood of women, as I punish all men of
their petty ignorance. I could remember what those
behind the curtain told me, it was everything that
Blasphemy is. And I’ve accepted, to run to my
own destiny, they’ll be those ready to hate as the
others there to support. For that, I have nothing
else to say to either side. For I’ve already left, for
a living death. Pictures of me in my final state, as
I smile and go on. Babylon beware. Peasants in
Jerusalem waiting for sign. Mystic join time, to
mock everyone here on earth. The future wants
me buried, because I know who’s lying. There’s
generations of people, wanting to change the
world and fewer people wanting to change themselves.
My heart is pure as I speak of humanity in vain.

In the time of dying, you’ll remember when you
have meet and turned away from thee lover, for
whatever mystical reason, redemption can be
offered, whisper their name, whisper it loud echos,
never stop the streaming image of thy lover, there
is no cure for love, none, you’ll carry the lover
over to the next life. Will it be a burden or blessing?

I’ve seen it, now I belong to her, to no other now,
I’ve seen her whole and true beauty, threading
everything that's forever, I cannot deny my inner-world,
lover, we’re in our own world, like we should.
Smile for me now.

There’s no turning back from her essence, a devotion of deep discussions, enlighten intelligence, speaking in poetic forms, I’m blinded from her inner-world, teaching generations of humanity and leaving behind multiple renaissance. I measure the progress of my own life, by how content my lover is, I’m unable to see it any other way. For if that makes me morally wrong, parting from this world, fine, let it be. As for my lover, destiny has installed something greater, musings over this world, it’s ******* with your Heaven. It’s an historical event and something I witness in my own ****. For I’ve put too much work, investing in her love to turn back now. I’m desolate without, sinful without, the horrors of reality shadow over me, I’m unable to breathe without her attention, I wouldn’t last on the wrong path. Fo my entire essence, soft, gentle, tender and always yearning romance. I wasn’t born like this, I raised myself this way. For a brief and accidental moments, for I saw the entire worth of a woman’s inner-world and saw the face of God. And for the first time, I transcended, it’s beyond addiction, it’s life’s entire purpose. I leave my poems here, when I cross to the other side, so she can see my heart is pure.

“It’s far better, to do your own duties imperfectly,
than to master the duties of another.”
Lord Krishna

Even just to live, takes extreme summouring
threads of courage. To have that same courage
to be self-produced, is even rarer. Without
anxious dependence, as this present, unfolds
into the future, parting from the past. To stop,
for a single second, to have romance, under
candlelight. Blessed. There is no easy way
from earth to Heaven and to dance with the
stars, that humanity call ‘constellations’. Do
not debate it, those who dare to live originally
is the brave, without fear of persecution. Material
wealth slaves the fool and has the potential to
master the wise, the poorest person is the one
who still wants more. The sun still rises and
even on sin, it still shines. To whoever has ever
experienced love, knows how to turn themselves
into a muse to poets. And there I go, to cross these
plains in utter exile, in hope to avoid death
(knowledge variable)

Live now, live hard in passion, live now, as if
all eyes are on you to lead them, live as if forever exists
inside, let no mind be fraile and know fully-well,
death is around the corner, in all it’s conquering
glory, for death is definite. Live now, like if one
has destroyed both desire and anxiety. Live now,
as if you had discovered love. Live now, as if
your soulmate had just broke freely from the
mold of poetry and had demanded it from you.
Live now, as if your own fate is turn into a
burning Muse and in the transition into death,
your reward is be a martyr. For those are who
had lived when they had the chance.

Let me soak in something than higher art, expression of reality that I experience. Effortless and distinction. Eternal on dawning-awakening. Evening kisses under moonlight. Pulling contrast. Attributing lines to poetry, but must experience the romance first. Deriving from dreams. In remote areas of my inner-world.

No mutual admiration, I adore the thought of being loved, for I have so much to give and I’m slowly tiring with engaging with poetry.

Their eyes glittered heaven and waved into my soul, lingering inside now. In mystery, touching my flesh, soothing poetry. Exchanging secrets. We conversed for days, afterwards, we sat in silence and I felt content for the first time. I had always read about love, poetry, novels, in songs I heard. As for finding one’s soulmate, I had always thought they exiled to the cosmo’s and never to exist here in the present with me now. Evoking meaning into me. Galactic beauty. Though it’s wildly-overwhelming, taming my entire essence. We kiss. Touch. Stare. Smile. For I have travelled far enough to meet the one shaped only for me.

Harmony.

Blending in paradise, paradox and reality. Be in the sweep of movement with me. It’s a strange land. Normal to my Muse. pounding scarlet. Brewing violet. Velvet blending. Long time melodramatic epic. As for my peers, they’re blowing in the wind on death row.

For me, I rose.

Installing myself into history. Drifting away from this world. Combing body, soul, heart and formed my essence. Belonging to a kingdom, unable to be articulated in any form of art or poetry. It’s sinful to avoid it. A culture of Muses, coming together, from something I just wanted pure love, in poetic romance, epic symphonies. Opera written than sung for me. As I approach my own destiny that I crafted for myself, there is destiny, but vain, despair, angst and pain, is from not from acting on life and falling into the mundane. With climate of the adoring music. As lyrics leaving me spellbound. And without a sound, I slide down, the tree of life as Goat heads pray. The trinity men singing in chanting words. Spanned across period of humanity.

Burning into consciousness.

In rewards, mythological fame, I’m in a world of my own. A single drop, into limitless paths, expressed wit my own hands touching immortality, as the population watches as a defenceless witness. Tender and full of emotion. I can birth any future for anyone

There’s nothing more eloquent than that glance at your lover, that somehow forces magic inside to boil and burst inside and you’ve got nothing else to do, than to violently act in ******* session, disregarding the world outside. All in unpredictable fashions, forming historic times, in it’s sliding wild and roaring romantic themes, that’s even new to our Muses and as humanity looks back on the lovers, it sparks the second renaissance. Kissing and touching in singular places, urging to move on, because it’s all too painful not to kiss and touch everywhere at the same time, moans turn into love songs, through the physical, the souls transcend through becoming one and finally, the meaning of life becomes all too visible, as for the fact of being all too human, drips and drops away in melting fashion and finally, like the bluebirds being let free from its cages for the first time. Lovers become free to live as they should. Angels in Gods eyes and illuminating everything they touch with ease. There is no boundaries between the two, no secrets, nothing to hold them back, all personal fears and insecurities become forgotten, like their personal history as their private-public flaws are mastered and moved on from. And in a gasp of romance aroma breathing in air, and perhaps with a little sting of envy, for anyone blessed enough to witness two that had found each other, despite life’s and this society's flaws, sin, expectations, they’ve got nothing to do, but to continue to gasp in awe, bringing any heart to tears. Though how ******, how much of cruel trick, with joking laughter, life would be, that there would be utterly no hope of actually finding one’s soulmate and experience the true and pure love of a soulmate and that dream only belonged in poetry or to some parallel world. And as much as I expect to be held responsible for thy sins committed in this life, for I fully expect to uphold my creator to my soulmate, whether that I get to experience them or not. Now I fully understand, that whether I’m living in paradise or not, it presents self-awareness and knowledge, bliss truly mixes in with the ignorant. As for now, all I know, that each love poem is only a trail left behind those who had experience it.

As for my own redemption, to all that I took apart by ignoring, I could only use this present to parent my future, not to repeat the mistake I’ve suffered in the past, do not pity me because I have. For I had apart in it. Strip back beliefs, perhaps there is no inherent good or evil and it’s all left to our hands to contribute either. It’s tiring engaging with this world, noticing my own duality. By each sin committed, by our acts of kindness, there’s a twinkling ripple in our actions and it’s the same in our silence that lacks any actions. The sun rises in the east and settles in the west. The sun raises itself daily.

For let us pray, we’ve all sinned and as for my kindness, let me learn to be self-satisfied in being the only person of knowing such action has taken place.

It can be a small world, constant crossing over moments, little for elevation, words on the wanting it all to end. As to the amount of gods in spectrum-history to humanity, to the same count can be called for the apocalypse, for it’s nothing new in the human psyche, the yearning for it is as strong to know the meaning of one and the entire humanities meaning. It won’t stop. Until it happens and when you speak of the Devil, he shall appear.

To develop, to know, to learn, to act on, to practise one’s own character that fate I had mention, to unfold throughout life is nothing short of an addictive-venture that brings such a lonely sickness. As to most laymen, for it’s too hard to grasp and ponder with thinking thoughts, that’s why martyrs had been deemed crazy-mad prior to dying. After that fateful action in death. Their life had personal permission to full live without fear of the outside.

Eat the apple.

Life can be taken in as thawing out.

I wander in darkness seeking light, failing to realize that the light is in the heart of the darkness. Surpassing all culture’s creed and dogma. Rising from the water to jump off the edge, flying through the clouds and drips of dazzling rain. Not accepting the natural status that others had placed upon. The mystics that sing the mysteries sing louder, binding themselves onto me. The glitter to the normal world is everything that vels are. Wisdom has o fears and as a pool of it, self-produced, never to run dry, for it eventually covers the ocean floor and everyone wants to know the code of poet’s immortality, never want to lead a new generation.

The world can end today. But not before I have my coffee.

For I’ll walk a flock of flames.

Conversing philosopher with the one, who holds the heart of a soldier and the brains to teach a whole globe.

Let me be abandon, exile in isolation, coming to grip with death as a unavoidable action, never now, will I need to repent on never living my life, perhaps those made from genuine substance are the most lonely in known cosmos, doomed to read to poetry to pass the time, avoiding to be the contrary to those sticking to the masses. People collecting and colliding together, unsatisfied with themselves, filling out with luxuries, like rats scattering across the creaky wooden boards, avoiding those opposite - plagues. Love in poetry is never fulfillment of love, ony in the experience, no series of moments in life will stop the struggle, awakening happens in the blissful combustion in conquering the mind, the totality of being in existence, dominating reality and birthing freedom from it, life’s meaning has nothing to with being saved. To when I die, do not weep for when my coffin drops into the ground, for I had already passed, left to wonder this life, alone in exile, [pictures of me in my final state, on poetic grind, refuting mysterious rumours, waiting for comrades getting murdered and resurrected, can’t lie, got no love for the other side, at that other place, rumours that I died, murdered in cold blood, I just left.
(knowledge variable)

To why I think poverty is worse than
addiction. Not only destitution gives
you reasons to take any junk, but
destitution will suffocate you while
you’re clean. To life can be grandeur
giving reasons to be grandiose and
as for the rest of life, you’ll resent it.
You’ll fall in love, when it needs you,
break it’s heart, it raise hell, calling
upon the rapture, if you get the chance.
you better conquer it and live beyond
what’s human’s call royalty.
(To my mystics locked up, by culture
and ignorance,
soldiers of
the century, directly organised, to analyse
mankind's
crimes and out directly, looking
for
you.)

Great poetry can derive from the greatest isolation,
Conjure and fades away, in reality, art is produced,
resulting in higher dreams, yearning emotions and
at times, thinking thoughts, exchanging verses over
melodies inspiring to sing. One poet, can write one
poem, that sparks something more than a personal
revolution, changing tides to change Earth’s patterns,
like bring the second renaissance, where in actuality,
the poet only wanted romance. Where it’s always
kept at a large distance

There are points or moments, worth
not knowing why. The best muse, is
the muse I cannot have. I look to poets
who write better than thee.

In retrospect, if you had asked me what I
wanted, I’ll ask for endurance. My past
seems so pointless now. My face fades,
my soul drips away, the routine of another
survival is underway. I just changed worlds.
At least I know now, sometimes life, all
you need is to endure it.

To surpass my own suffering, is to forgive
and let go. No-one to hold onto, no-one
to lean upon, as I cry, no-one there to hear
me calling, so I continue falling, until I
self-destruct and force myself to build up.
In the end, I’ll be alone, isolation in dying
Moments. There is no point in life, where
the suffering will stop. But it would be a
dull world, if I never experienced pain.
I’ll see you at the crossroads, if not, I’ll
see you when I pass death, sinner or saint.

Sometimes I feel the present colliding inside,
as the future declares war, both pressing upon,
I’m unable to focus on the present. Be with me
now. There is no poetry without some sort of
suffering. Despite how much this poem seems
to lack.
(knowledge variable)

Thoughts expressed with emotion, do not criticize
if one cannot understand, thought look at it, as
if it’s something you cannot accept. As for the artist,
generally they become their own heros. If not, life
will be a bore, unable to fit into something normal.
I’m in too deep to change, I’m already dead, because
everyone looks unfamiliar and I swear I’m going to
die at the hands of someone I know. And that’s real.
No-one can **** the soul of someone’s creation.
(Knowledge Variable)

Perhaps poetry itself invented love, if it didn’t
poetry took advantage of love, only to get noticed.
Now at least I’ve got something to do, just writing
poems about the love I yearn and have not yet
experienced. Troublesome.
(Knowledge Variable)