If the future has no hope, trust me, the
present will not escape any bitterness
that life throws this way. As nothing
that cause the heart no stronger pain
than the mute silence from one’s lover,
that all of life’s hope is rested upon, in
such holy trust. One’s hope and one’s
despair, is rendered with one, no other
time or moment, where one’s destiny
is shown so strongly, than it’s shined
in one’s romantic life.  
(knowledge variable)

I grow tired of hearing, ‘let things be’
or ‘it’s the way things go’. At most, to live
truly and freely, it could not be a fleeting
dream, to when my body sleeps. My dreams
are meant to be touched, like one’s own
soulmate. Poets should not write such things,
nor as tenors should sing songs of heartbreak.
I live here too. Oh Langston, I do not act
just to get through and survive, I wish not to
be a raisin that dries up in the sun. Life, I live
here too, just as much as you do.
(Knowledge Variable)

under escort, visiting life,
I'm unable to command modern times,
at least here I can be god of words.

Silence is the friend of lying, weeping silence
upon deafening ears. Poet, write, writing as
if humanity’s life depends on it, as much as
your own soul. Pull yourself into a frame, not
soley of creative genius, but one knowing
that one day, you’ll spark the mind of the one
who changes the shifting patterns to this turning world.
(Love me, I want to hold you in the morning,
as much as wanting to hold you during the night.)

be different,
doesn't mean you're
right or wrong, the permission to hurt,
to
avoid,
just finding your place

Sorrow in my heart,
created by my tragic hands,
burden with eternal loneliness,
I had sold my soul
in order to write poetry

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.

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

(What madness it is to fit in.
There’s pain, share it with me.)
Live or die, ******* to this body, mind, heart, soul
and my muse has nothing else to do, to render me
intoxicated with the wisdom she brings. It’s all in
time. I am that other. I’ve atoned my past and I’m
awakened, consolation for my future. No-loner
waiting for that afterlife, bless, living it now. For I’ve
meet them, behind the curtains and as for death.
I’ve died already. Smile for me now.

Under silver moonlight, for the purpose of
romance as the lovers see the stars as only
of windows to Heaven. And when they kiss,
Heaven enters their souls and become not
connected with Heaven, but with each other,
as they make love, they totally become intertwined
and every poet lives in jealous.

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.

Perhaps the use of poetry, is to be used
to heal heartbreak wounds, piercing from
one’s soul. The pain is long and forever
deepening, as this life is too brief for it to
heal. Remember young poet, in times of
bitter loneliness, you’re still attached to this world
and anyone reads your poems, they’re
attached to you and if they cry as a result,
momentarily the loneliness lessens. There
is no greater search, than the one whos
looks for their soulmate and refuses to believe
they live in myth.

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.)

Silence exists, it exists in gatherings
of essence that form an absolute, salvation
exists elsewhere for most, higher power
inside, own gods and self produced
wisdom, definities do settles in terms of
people, today cannot always yearn of
yesterday wants, for no crystal ball for the
future, truth is a matter for death and personal
identity belongs inside, in various ways and
conflicting wars, torn apart, yet in poetry
culture is where I comfort, until by chance I
find a lover. Than everything I want just becomes
a drench of romance and their attention.
(Checkout some current publications on Amazon, search 'Darcy Prince')

I’m insisting to live a meaningful life,
hear nothing but angst, allowing me
to believe that shallow takes are meant
to be, selling myself short, vape smoke
battling smoking ancient Heavenly,
criticism over coffee, dreaming while
in the mundane, aspiration to reclaim
myself, I need to get myself alone,
it’s where I've started from. Meditate
to flatter life’s graces and hope in those
prays, life deems acceptable and able
to live at thy-will.

now has tiny dancing flames, where stars
go to die. Their final breathe makes them
flicker in the dark, fading, as I take each
breathe, letting out slowly and in easing
pain, where in faith, show my real self to
the outside world. It’s all because I dare
to reach out to the infinity. When everyone
else told me that I couldn’t. But I do not
ponder on humanity's flaws, just wonder
when the rapture is coming.
Perhaps the only secret is to life, we wink
in sync to the evening stars
(dead wrong, when they’re long gone)

- knowledge variable

My ability & skill to commit evil
on purpose with a deliberate
consciousness is only matched
by the same forms of doing
good. Whether it’s myself or
to the world. What is worse,
accidental evil or the evil on
purpose? Is it the same for
the good? When it comes to it,
I’ll remain a individual. Regardless
of the community, society, group,
state, political party, sub-groups,
intent, revolutionary groups. It’s
always a battle of culture when it
comes to it.
(Everybody wants to change
the world & than stop when
it comes to changing themselves.
My heart is beating fast, is it
time to die?)

Life goes on, on the minds of dying men,
when they use their lips to speak truth, as
flickers of their own reality go over their
mind and whimper, despite who’s in their
final moment of this life.

me

to poetry,
i want to do more than
catching feelings,
just to write them in poetry

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.

Let our very essence entwine, in our
breathe when we lean in to kiss. Souls
marrying, as our bodies make love.

For the love of poetry exciting thoughts
that a person had fallen so much in love
with another and they could not keep it
to themselves and made an effort to express
in this and for this world. As for anything
else, it’s between the two lovers, creating
memories forever, as much as they do it
for themselves and nothing else.

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.

the effort of understanding,
the effort of wanting to love better,
lasting despair, longing yearning,
fuller the love, heavier the romance

We often want something more than our daily living, but rarely we spark change or undertake any opportunity to do so, self-sabotaging speaks volumes of humanity than our self-care

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

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)

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.

life is what it is,
if you continue
to yearn, something
is wrong and right