A trained poet, knows that falling in
love in their life, devalues poetry itself,
no-longer motivated to read in their
own search for love. Sonnets for beauty,
lines to express emotions, nothing can
replace the touches and glances, from
a smiling lover.

Walking body, talking head, living dead,
questioning everything, like the floor
that civilization stands on. Prospects,
weight and gold, wondering why there’s
no virgins aren’t being sacrificed, angels
and demons wrestle inside. Stand sparks,
rebel with a cause, running with scissors
inside my soul and going to a ghetto
near you. Poetry banging more than street
fame, lyrics leaving one spellbound in
new and profound wisdom. Working towards
my innermost secrets. Shivering. Will I
self-destruct or grow within self-awakening?

A good lover, is a brief moment in time. The perfect
one, is cut off in this life, because once sparked.
Like a star, enslaved chains. Always on the chase.
Maybe I’m naive on my find for love. At least in
the process I found poetry, to comfort my bitter
and warm tears, I always end up, alone while
I cry. And if the dead could talk, I wonder what
they’ll be screaming about? Soulmates shouldn't
be in some novel, parallel universe, dreams
or wishes. They all belong in each other’s life,
instantly devaluing poetry and any romantic art.
In a world where affection is constant and growing,
with every-sound, just another love song in ode
and homage. Wake up, you don’t have to run,
you don’t hide, just cave in

Poetry, death isn’t the end. A good poem
will stain the minds of those who read it.
Like a the perfect lover who  had left,
memory is consumed by them, while
experiencing regret now. Leading one
to the mysterious rites and rituals (I
got comrades, murdered and resurrected).
Enigmatic mystic, craving only touch - again.
Not something, where poetry nor mysticism
could ever provide. Rebirth

At times - the mystics eat the stars
and burst like supernovas. Becoming
wisdom itself. At times - the poets find
love and forget about poetry. At times,
the philosopher falls into death, begins
to calm their running thoughts and rest.
At times, we have to let them. Life is
only worth living, when one does live.

Let me be absorbed in art,
nothing else but art, if I
cannot fall into love and
to be loved. Let me do
nothing but create art.

Mystic knowledge, strangely exhilarated my very essence,
providing a sense of strength to depart from this life I know
and where I know those. Where at least myself, I know for
sure, I lived in resentment and disappointment. In silence
I leave, refusing to yield to what society wants

She enchanted me with a single kiss.
Never to untangle me, as such, leaving
me alone, in rendering soft moments,
self-producing romance. Yearnings given
when reading poetry and conscious of
hearing the world’s noises as love songs.

No-one is truly ready for love.
Unexpected events, in meaning.
Whirling and overwhelming feelings,
to which I can feel, as for her, she
created and tame, by touching
my deepest parts of thy soul.
And surprised when she came to
my presence as she brought,
contentment into my life. Taking
the courage, into the abyss
and bliss. As for every star in
the sky. There’s someone
in love. As for every beauty
noticed. A woman had smiled.
Deeper the love, closer to illumination,
the depth of poetry, the harder
the heartbreaks. To put fear into
a man, let him love. To have meaning
in life, let her be loved.

I think the Earth or this life, has no
Inherent goodness. Maybe it’s all
up to the individual to contribute,
no-matter how little or how much.
But it’s all timely when the sun’s
rays spark through as we remember
in terms of nostalgia, how important
it is to romance under moonlight.
And we all yearn to be loved during
times of courting lover. But it is
no poet's intent to advance humanity,
maybe just to speak the minds.
Even if all the poets embellish in
romance, lush live’s - holding hands.
Jazz.

It’s blasphemy in its actions, but sugar-sweetness
to its appearance. Most call it life, now I have a new
name for it. War. Wrestling for a softer moods towards
life. Development of character will not come any other
way, the duration of it, a luxury. And dying is the only
way to remove one’s past, whoever said the struggle
will stop today? Rare is the one makes the effort, holy
are the ones who turnover to a life called musings to
living souls as a result of their actions. But one on fire, the Heavens open and glare down over Earth. Do not
hold back, go into them when you see them.

Fall in love with a real women, whose making
something of herself with her private intelligence,
helping hand from her depth of character and
ready-made beauty, trust me, they hold up
the sun and sky. When they smile, the stars
rise and ballet for them. The rest of this life’s
beauty will be shown, depending on their mood.
Everything else is pure mysticism, man unable
to understand. So, when you’re paying for the
love she gives, with your soul. One will be
Illuminati and the rest will be understood.
And trust me, real women have no-need of boys.

The only thing that fades in our lifetime,
despite our decaying bodies. Is that of
true love, we’ve all meet them and at
most times, in passionless passages
duration in unpoetic times, we’ve let
them go. Poetry, everyone knows you
and scream your name in heartbreak,
never again will you be alone

Oh poetry, how you let more than a thousand
flowers bloom in the form of souls. Smile
for me now. Because in daily ease.

Fall in love with a real women, whose making
something of herself with her private intelligence,
Helping hand with her depth of character and
Ready-made beauty, trust me, they hold up
the sun and sky. When they smile, the stars
rise and ballet for them. The rest of this life’s
beauty will be shown, depending on their mood.
Everything else is pure mysticism, man unable
to understand. So, when you’re paying for the
love she gives, with your soul. One will be
Illuminati and the rest will be understood.
And trust me, real women have no-need of boys.

At death, stops a choking anguish,
paying for a life lived and not all
the wrongs I’ve done. Will my own
soul go into exile? On the other side
of the vast distance between those
on Earth and myself. Stepping over
decaying petals, will I go somewhere
else? Someone tell that I am, isn’t
God just another cop, willing to pull
the trigger back, when I don’t go
pop? Step no nearer to me. There’s
a storm coming. Plots and schemes.
In constant circles, around me.
They smile at me and frown behind me.
Secrets in plain sight, until I see them
and secrets no-more.

My soul, sung by a tenor.
Those who can hear, vanished
into thin air, by spooks or by
social shunning and wept.
Many can’t hear, few ever do,
mystics are the ones who
stay to listen to singing tenor.
Mystic, I’ve self-produced a
supplication for life on Earth.  
And in can disturb the cosmic
alignment between the layman's
soul and mind. Got one love
for my true mystics.

There’s a fountain of experience
in waiting reality, though it smirks.
It is in waiting to be lived. Life it
in a relentless form. Those
who do not drink from the fountain,
will die, thirsting after the bitterness
of lingering ignorance. Yielding
trends, laughing-face at history,
the normality of it-all. Tempting
and easy - isn’t it?
(In dedication to my brethren Bones,
writing poetry again, I’m free again.
The sun may rise in the east,
It sets in the west. Babylon don’t test.
Rough and ready, bourgeois bow
your head in shame. Militant and ready
us outlaws are.mysticism took over
my soul and now I’m force to ride,
hard to **** when I’m unloading my AK.
Guess I wasn’t tripping, when I saw
them for the second time rolling by.
I wish they’ll do it in my sleep.And it’s
time to be a ghost.)

In truth, little amount is from the people
who tend to create something from
their own being, you know, actually
being someone - or most do nothing
in isolation, away from prying eyes.
But always the collective is the first
to blame. You know, talk about disease,
ignorance is so suffocating, in every way.
It turns somemany blind. The sobering truth,
if you live, you’re apart of the system.
In some measurable way. By breathing
you express being alive and by acting,
it’s a culture, fashion, religious, law -lawless
or social expression. And everyone can
see. There’s is nothing wrong to success.
That’s measurable as-well. You know,
quantity of friends, high opinion,
rising ladders in the corporate world
or being the one bringing them down.
And in reality, success generally comes
someone else’s misery. At the peak of
it all, stars shine bright, until other than
you all and get ignore. As anything goes.

Those who never act on desire
Restrained in their love
Holding your hand
Maybe it’s like,
Holding infinity in eternal love
And it’s a system I’m enslaved in

Oh poetry, I’ve separated Heaven and earth, in one thought.
Mysticism itself, no-need to be a institutionalization, for
I own my body as my soul becomes one. The ones in the
Shadows of dropped curtains, shape everything over this
earth as they rest in the betweens, some call it boid as
the catholics call it ‘purtogray.’ For me it is only a place
where the mind can enlightened. Awakened illuminati.

Muse, in bright lashes and painted
nails, I confront the conforming
social trends and I laughed.
I was taken by force to exile.
I’m not mad at you, it’s done in
the dark. They painted my body
in red, because I stumbled behind
the curtains. Some things are
Best left unsaid, even if, most
of the population are left
to look the same. I knew they
had to leave me there.
Smoke that Bombay

Poems, somehow, poetic words
have none the value for what
I feel in experience, nor in
wondering in thoughts, even if
the thoughts and emotions.
Dancing with thy soul.
Experience awakening than die.
(They used to tell me,
the devil is the crazy one.
Told he hated me.
Then I got a little older
and learnt they are the crazy
ones. There’s nothing I
can say or do to change
They are. Red turns into
orange after a washes.
But that’s normal? Isn’t it
Norman? Out of our med’s
and out of minds, bring in
the world.) Why I say these things
cause people's scream, keep
creeping in my dreams.

Lover, why I’m I afraid to die?
I belong to you. Knowing you,
a life worth living, because
I made something of myself.
In the process of it all. I had
become the man you’ve always
wanted and in you, a character
so exceedingly overwhelming
of true beauty, touching holiness,
you ended up saving me.
Smile for me now.
When it comes time to die,
I’ll render thoughts of you.
And take comfort and ease,
I’ll wait for you there, in other
kingdoms, where those brave
enough to go with their soulmate
in durations of horrifying true
and perfect love.
Than can people bloom.
Smile for me, again and again.

The thing about beauty, it has brought
me everything I thought I wanted.
Thinking it will bring me contentment.
(meaningful attention, deepening knowledge
gifts, conversation over the arts.)
How wrong I’ve been. Even though I
thought different. Muse, soothe me,
like roses, I’ve been drenched in thorns.
False-beauty believes in a image in
the mirror, the others don’t. Now that I'm
scared, I've formed another beauty,
a life lived.

Love cannot be articulated, it can be expressed during experience,
never to meet vain or envy. Worshiping all romance and
valuing everything. Pulling strain on everything else, resulting
in complete loss of value, if the love is true. Slow, feeling rapid,
waking conscious to both involved. Poet’s praise as others weep
in jealous-joy. Blooming flowers. The entire being is overwhelmed.
Never to meet the kind of love, that others do, that is somehow
always falls short, in its confinement of normal living and talk of
that the love I share with thy soulmate, does not exist. They
have never been and whimper in times of honest reality or at
the time of yearning redemption at death.

She could be a direct mediator between Heaven and earth,
Heavenly power - equal to Angels that help her muse over poetry.
Her earthly power, producing a new institution of philosophy and
the arts, along by sparking a new period of humanity, forgetting
any philosophy and art in our history, with passion. The fact
that her heart, mind, character and soul is all connected and tamed,
she is a walking Empire. I know, because I paid attention when
she tempted me with seducing beauty of smiles and glittering eyes.

At the heart of every frustration,
let it collide with fantasy,
while living freely here in reality.
No-longer notorious unable to express
in poetry. Beauty is the promise
and reward of personal illumination.
Some notice the yearning for,
few will attempt to fight for it
and rare is the one who masters it,
being called mystic.

Personal awakening, incurable
Reaching beyond everything
here on Earth, a permanent suffering.
For those undergoing the process
and for them who aren’t.

Ascetic purity of thought, dismissing worldly conditions,
prestige attained, mystics in a secular fashion, holy.
Personal impulses in constant growth, character in creed,
I’m alive, living in every moment, feeling what I’m
living for, something in complete freedom. The people
outside still have contentment, when they’re not around
(where were you when I needed help?). Being swarmed
by the locust. Unperturbed soul. I’ve entered the kingdom,
we all know that’s there, I’m touching immortality and left
who I know here, in the past, they’re-all dispersed like
the evening stars and stay put in memories. As for
the past is meant to be. No love lost, because no love
found.