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)

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

Poetry has well thought out a collection of words. To articulate, perhaps the metaphysical essence inside of us all. Short impulse drops of wisdom. To comfort us, as either read or write. That internal voice or maybe a poet is someone with something to say, just no one in their life to tell. Poets are either deep thinkers who cannot write out or simply doesn’t have the patience to write philosophy, romantics without lovers or have, but no soulmate, maybe just physically formed anxiety. Regardless what makes up a poet, where few had any fame and if they have, it’s normally skewed and absurd. Poets had and still do contribute a large part to humanity and have nearly the same duration of history as humanity itself has. Here is a spontaneous stream of thoughts on poetry. For me, in modern times, poetry is a high taste in high art for people in high culture, like the theatre, ballet, and classical music. A snob overtone in terms of the audience. Despite the aesthetics of it all or the poetry for the rebels and the poems full of hatred towards parts of life and humanity, constructing words of resentment, in order to master than mood.

A common trait that I hold in terms of my friends who are interested in poetry, in particular, my male friends. Is that at one point experienced an intense boyish love towards a female they knew or know in their life. It’s normally a strong take to the lust that is veiled as a fairytale. Turning to poetry to have words to say or in hope to impress them. In most cases, it’s failed. And yes, I became interested in poetry for these same reasons. If you asked Bill, ‘It’s better to love and lost than to never had loved at all’, ‘I cried because I was full of dead stars and broken debris, but you still called me beautiful.’ As Catherine Hancock would say. I’m a firm believer as far as my convictions would take me to, that only hopeless romantics die of a broken heart and that true real love that poets make a big deal about, delivers a particular horror to the human soul, devaluing anything earthly. Romance in novels, romance in poetry, love. Seems to be the constant and strongest theme in literature. But it’s an experience most of us desire for. Even in the world of philosophy itself have discussed this. A sentimental fact of mine, I do believe that each of us has a soulmate in this lifetime, that isn’t a deity or character in those romance novels. A particular person that is personalized made for us. A soulmate to experience life and love with, while knowing the meaning is in the other person that brings in contentment. And one’s own destiny lay’s solely in their attention given to you, while a hell of angst, breaking down your soul experiences when their attention is turned away. Know this now that the smile on your face, knowing that you are blessed to be somebody, and that is you are a soulmate yourself for somebody else on this earth. It’s an Angel singing when you know love inside. Brave to follow it through and unforgivable if you don’t.

Poetry is equipment of living for the living, while praises praise for the dead and a craft to help shape genius while they are here. Freedom or an attempt to touch it, poetry is. Comfort for introverts in isolation. Silence in their mouths. While others cannot shut up. Another firm belief I  have in poetry (perhaps all parts of literature), for poets and readers, is that one group of people have something to say, while the others don’t and are happy to listen. In the realm of poetry (and literature) a collection of the lonely.  I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." Or maybe, “All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart.” Said by Tahereh Mafi. I hard music is what emotion sounds like, perhaps poetry is what emotion would say if it’s mixed in with thinking. Poetry for comfort in isolation, words as friends and words to cure the physical separation from society while dwelling amongst them all, perhaps poets suffer from such grief in knowing how brief this life is and undergo such a transformation that parts them from everyone. Like the heart of life. Maybe it’s them is unwanted. Pulling up reality and dressing their character with it. Unable to contain it and they vent in words of potent beauty. No one likes the harshness of life and poetry is stranded in that realm. And if I’m dying today, let me die original and society is no service if fails of it’s grappling with those who cannot face away from reality. I’m the younger, ready to put in my time.

Maybe poetry is a way to confront death because we have definitely have sinned, like the monks who follow Buddha, leading the wild ways of the hearts of humanity. It’s a sad life that avoids death. I wish to be in a state crossing over that is in poetically articulated as Atticus wrote, ‘I hope that I arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk’. In the unknown is the fear of death. To inspire me now is in reading Marcus Aurelius, ‘Do not fear death, for it’s definite, fear rather than never beginning to live one’s own life’. In a humanist point of view, perhaps there is no ethical reason to die or on how to. Like in music, poetry is here to ease everything while putting in words in tongues to articulate such fears in dying. A person's metaphysical state lives on after the physical act of dying, in such ways as memory, paintings, photography and reading poems by past poets. So far, the overwhelming held belief in life after death is either peace in Heaven, suffering in Hell or reincarnation. Perhaps resurrection. Heidegger the German philosopher, despite his writings, another point of his fame is in the translations of his works. But in his book, ‘Being & Time’, there is no reference to and of God (yes, the same of Satan). Heidegger’s analysis of death is not concerned with how people feel when they are about to die nor with death as a biological event. Its focus is on the existential significance which this certain ‘yet-to-come’ death has to human life. The use of poetry for death, I’ll leave these words that poetry can be used as a personal statement, like the rapper 2pac, ‘if I shall die before I wake. I hope I died for a purpose.’ Providing one to motivate to live now and live over purpose. Poetry can pay homage to lost ones to death, writing lines on what they meant. And if asked about the sadness of losing peers and family, ‘regret is powerful’. Or perhaps poetry can express hopes to the afterlife, whether it’s in either Heaven or Hell, maybe it is only the bleak numbness of nothingness. But still, poetry bangs out more than street fame. Though death happens, currently it has nothing to do with us, for one will die one day.
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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.

Falling like sunlight
Fondness.
Tonness. Intervals of kindness.
To be in the library, is be in the center of the knowledge of world. Dexterity.
Decilate in art.         Accidental philosopher.     Diplomat to the outsides.
Breathless figure.
Inarticulate sounds. Fluttering. I lust for poetry. Over influcration. Embellish in romance. An enchanted landscape. A place to escape. Forgetting the world’s troubles. Inspiring colours for painters. Strong affections, enough power to break mountains. Deliberate.  
Child to romantic soil
A child to hope,
rude poem,
Lover
creator of ballads and a voice to those who remained in faith to our love
that explodes inside. Thou shall be in poetry, a following, a celebration of finding love.
Faithful.
Never
to
give
up.
What new experiences can be made, from out of it?
Waking conscious and worth saving.
Lesser people wander aimlessly to the mundane and daily living of life.
No more, where meaning and contentment is away from us. Self-doubt, second guessing, the unknown wanting. Parted and given us it’s words it will never return.
Awakening happening in common people.
Wisdom like a philosopher,
patience,
like a monk.
Honey for the world. Silk flowing over lovers.
Not a mythical pedigree, changing into mythical logic fame
Rising above those outside, with moth-eaten dreams attached to them
Romance flowing here, inside of us,
innovating ourselves, to a self, not yet fully conceptualize.
Under lamps that shimmer along the theatre district or at the painting corners, using every colour or shade one could touch.
Yawns between lovers. Declaring new sensations, as we stare at one another, peeking into the souls.
Acting on love, in endless ways.
Imagine, living a life, no matter of one’s rank and all ignorance drips, vices drop and died. With everything you’re seeing, is a tempting beauty and it’s fruits is beyond to what one is expecting. So far, nothing in us defines us, only musings inside.
A scent from butterflies smiling filling out our immediate presence. Soft spaces and we speak of cello music, holding violets, unable to look away.
Luminous in rich olive’s, magnetic and yet, highly ******. Always more than something we write in lines of prose. ******* to one another, despite being free in the search of love and truly being who we are meant to be. As it turned out. We’re in each other’s life, trapped in the cage of the others inner-world, drowning in holy love.
Instead of a call, living in each other is the process of healing towards illumination in rebirth.
They are the poets of love,
we are the actions of those poems.
That are always too slow
and our soul is spreaded over, too
many poems.
Muses, let us innovate,
as you allow them, to
emulate, outside Eden,
footprints over earth. Turning together, presing footprints on earth, naked in the ****.
I mind how I spend my time,
if it’s with you, the meaning I know now, is experience,
bear stripped heart
outside your presence, I experience the Devil’s revenge.
And I begin to
resent life
and tear myself down to my knees, sobbing for forgiveness.
Love has no need or time, for suffering.
Angels rubbing their eyes, to make sure this is no dream. An empire to last. Love now, as if forever exists. Echos in interstellar.  Devil in a hurry. Poetry flourishing, like a flower in the desert. Beauty in a singular spot. Silence and solitude. Painting. Open piano.
Quantity of dust and ashes, time clocks on.
Poetry is the written salt along to Heaven, maybe Hell.
Social maze. Landscapes of emotions. Thinking thoughts.
Wasting no genius.
Under the rain of beauty.
Dazzling and eyes who ventured to read, with a wild spirit, self-wishing to self-tame. Lovers are always infamous.
Delicacy in touching with thy hands, dispensing in romance. An essence of everything, I see clearly. Unable to turn away. I’m left alone. Most are peasants when it comes to love. Yearning to soak in a lovers arms.
Dragging streets, out of a smell. Wider places in vast population. I’m alone in a crowd, where everyone else had labelled them ‘humanity’. Reflecting wealth, freedom, grandeur and the arts. In poverty, sorrow, friends and pain.
More refined everyday.
Spontaneous life.
Violent blue eyes. Tilting your head up. Glittered with hope and expectation. One gesture, shining rays of sun, falling upon you, made for paintings, immortalized in my memory. The greatest poem, in the eyes of the romantics, is always expressed in the action of their soulmate. For that is never to be shifted. Costing the world it’s own value, including the wonder to the cosmos.
Maybe it’s a distant destination to fall in love. Complete, whole, true and pure. Within what poets say and performed outside poems. An invincible manner. Where sun rages. Moon silver glow. Composed to be transfixed on love. Dogma spoken from her mouth. Kisses as baptism. Hearts as altars. Landlord over my soul. The be all, to end only me. Living here, but, it does not seem like reality. It is. Not in poetic fashion. Nor romantic. It is, truly musings. For we are the ones doing so. Credited by Angels. Bathing us, songs for prophets. Ruining the taste for earth. An odyssey. Labyrinths. Myths. Folklore. Rumours. Stories. Full circle. Arch of eternity. Burning and raging. Doubting no more. Feathers scattered across this land mass and ocean full water earth. Our inner worlds are ours, no others. It’s where we keep the real poetry. Blessed. Everything else, it’s in the other side, unseen to most. Besides mystics and muses. And a couple of monks. Running art, faster than the wind is blowing.
Conflicting poems.
Obscure on purpose.
Erratic, like thy moods.
Beauty flushes.
Pearls of wisdom.
Dying.
Dancing stars and forgotten poems.
Savouring each moment in thoughts and memories. Recover from a life unlived. Spotlight.
Anxious to improve.
Compassion, toiling bells. Bouncy eyelashes.
Sphinx,
claps,
soul.
Repress the image of me.
Existing in thy mind. Painful rose. Tilting. Stumbling to touch life that has never been lived. Unequal destiny. Flaunting. Presenting a face for earth. Bursting.
Freedom is demand, freedom isn’t here.
Lovers in the third eye.

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)

After
heartbreaking
realization.
A loss of life, a loss of another path. Destiny crumbles. As it shouldn’t.
Phosphorescent radiance in roaming ways, that twinge and flicker, distorting the sun's natural beams of rays that have sneaky ways in entering. Tilting up and gasping. Where the kids remain open and the eyes begin to scatter.
Becoming aware in not small moments of waves.
All at once.
Hitting every burrough of one’s soul, while the hands are in the pockets of a standing body. It’s horrific, yet not in disguise, spellbindingly beautiful. Filling out the tumultuous darkness in the inner-world, tempest to awakening. Be with me now. When it starts to ****** one’s secrets. I begin to sit on the nearest chair, trying to take a look of the sun through the colours that appear.
Turreted
towers that collapsed.
Heavy breathing that takes parts away, is the harsh payments of ones sin committed. Eccentric persona, developed from years of artisans works, finally taking over. Porta.
Darling state. Poetry letters open. Words of confessions.
Feet stretched out. Hands stay the pockets. Head slightly moves right. Held a moment. Looking up again. As after so many prays. The Heavens finally opening up for humanity for the first time. Rebirthed had always involved water.
Overpowering welcome. Restoring from the forgiveness of sin. And each word from every dogmatic book written, pops up at random, making sense and every flash. Atmosphere drops in heavy weight, the past is murky mist. Easy to let go and never to return as a spot to live, lessons when they appear. Like how stars are here to teach beauty.
Coherent schemes
by the
Mystics.
Patternless carpets. The inner-world is a funny things. Confusing lust for love. Believing own ideas are works of genius.
The sunlight darkens. The room cleared of any breeze. Still muteness. Standing and feeling the heart pump. Parish. Laugh now. In a post style, it enters with a meticulous way, lavish to make any prince grin with tinted jealous unable to contain. It’s good poetry. ****** outside, chanting to make my peace within and myself. Forgiving any mistake I bear hands had made, smile at any regret and remember shameful moments.
Anything till now is nothing.
Illumination happens during self-discovery or self-destruction.
There’s goats in the field. Moths circle them.
The ****** wears black in preparation. Myth and reality collide together when the rapture happens. Be conscious of it.
Life happens, whether I pay attention or listen.
Death is my final payment, after hardships that I am to endure.
Passing my soul and spirits to a another world. I continue to read ancient poetry that has been written to last eternity. Sunburnt kisses on the paper.
I leave the room, shall never return. And it still runes in me, like a  violent fever. Standing out in supercilious atmosphere. Like a son to a Muse. Meanings in fumes. Turbulent soul, mixing in with neo ways. Sweeping motions. To what happened than, in earth is now gone forever. So goodbye. Strange to think of you, as someone I knew and we no-longer talk. During summer hazes and frost biting air whilst surviving winter. Now, we have nothing to say and never to witness another’s hard times and weep while it’s happening. Goodbye. You can say I’m hiding behind poems and their words, instead of thinking I’ve gone to seek comfort elsewhere, still you haven’t goodbye. For I still wish to live in poetics, my romantic nature I cannot part, I wanted love and so-far, only poetry had supplied. So goodbye for now.
For I wanted and felt, that my own revelation would be your arms, **** fleur, thinking I’d be safe there and feeling holiness while inside your open legs, being baptised by the wetting puddles you produced.
Goodbye, writing that,
feeling it’s forever.
Prophecy in poem perhaps.
Maybe in abstract ways, in obscure and teasing ways, I tasted love, the love I felt for you and it’s snatched away in quicker ways than the duration it lasted inside.
Perhaps this end of times, change of worlds, is everything wrong, my flaws, defects, regret that’s opening up to swallow me whole. And that will be the end of me.
Goodbye for now.
Maybe love knows how to moonlight.
Lust.
The freedom from the ******* of self, is an open den, full of stronger stuff than *****, **** and seducing in it’s absolute liberating methods.
Twilight.
A salt grain on my path to total enlightenment and I’ll be a single totality of illumination, even without my true love. Plucked from and placed down this world of Musings. Oh lover, I do wonder what would of happen. The only thought I dwell in, play to it’s fantasies. Perhaps it would be something we’ll laugh about together.
Good old times,
with nothing to show for. Just something shaping experiences.
I’ll go forward, not knowing how to quit love. Without any conditions or expectations of communication. Look inside, for hold intimate essence of thyself, achieving the extraordinary, because now, I have no one to prove myself to, without a yielding validation. Full of mystery and wonder. Humble with the toiling actions hands and feet. Viewed as something else to others. Thyself is normal. Humility is even harder to grasp and hold. Thy world now, full of poetry I’ve written, full of gold and silver that makes love with stopping and fail, madness never hiding behind a veil, nothing else to burden me, slowing me down, never to distract.
Knowing too much
to which will never
satisfy
my thirst, but time provide to learn more.
meditating
over
jazz ballads, smooth
surface
wondering
moods.
I’m present not with myself in comfort. Pretty words spurting out, forming sentences in hopes to evoke emotions mixed in with thoughts. Do not say hello to me now. I’ve gone elsewhere. I’ve only taken coffee and dropping off poems.
Where I’m no longer a victim of times mocking laugh with the face of a clown. No longer to decay of what I could've been. Forever exists where I live.
Without thy soulmate, I have everything but turned into nothing.
Like a monk in a monastery.
In odyssey, sleep is never, conscious always, dreamy form, full figure, waking. Tattoo drops. A saint in a province constant evolving beauty. Angels are thy neighbour. Discussing never the issues held within humanity. Passages of passionate time. Lengthy duration. Lover, if you ask me now, I got peace in my own mind and happy now. My shakes have left me, like the morning of a day beginning.
Understanding everything.
Dropped my heart, press it closer.  I’ve dropped into myth, never to leave, exiled not, jailed not, prisoner not. Goodbye, I’ve left.
Perhaps I’ll be plucked again, picked again, any enlightenment given to me, will all be stripped away and wake from this wild strawberry dream.
(knowledge variable)

Born into life, without questions, born to a period not knowing what it is, life laid out. Stirred and mixed with stronger overtones of melancholy. Ambition from mundane, a desire to fit in, to be noticed. Born smiling. Twinge.

There’s fear and loathing,
influence measured, as much of success.
Blink and you’ll see the same,
for when open a pair of eyes up. Smile and it will be reflected. Cry, it won’t.

Undefined vanity.

Land of freedom.

Breathless soaking, mist on glass. Violet haze. Fashion as veils. Trends of distractions. Attention, a threatening murmur. Contemplation of reckless emotions. Upturning awareness. Affection wanted. Castle. Inviting gentle poetry from poets that lived hard lives.

******* to one's inner-self. Spades.
How to make redemption on being born? Making an amends,
born into life, opening fire, slightly jaded, it’s not what anyone thought it is.
Charming like gold. Bleak inside. Placing random value. Moonlit dreams. Rustling silk wishes, isolation presence, always alone, gleaming out, as to say that creation is more than anyone could possibly bear. Weighing one down.
The fullness of decaying hope, producing perfume to poems.
Crossing over the duration of one’s natural life. Attempting to pardon the bitterness inside. Though it clings to my soul with dear life, yawning it causes, laying to normal daily
living,
freightful
torrent
fragile
in
common
ways.
Threading malady. Originality always on cue to be tempting, at times to feed, an incredible lust. Everything becomes vivid and heightened, sounds louder, heat rose, perception becomes acute. Avoids eye contact in hope that one’s own inner-life is not noticed. People know the face, barely remember the name.
Innovation is in the aroma,
master of one.
Fate and destiny seems to want to marry.


Maybe it’s a shift of culture, viewing glass, a new dogma.
Noticing the afflictions of life, attaching not to limitations,
the clarity of mind can destroy much of the illusions that seem to float by,
where the youth seems to vanish,
regret builds.
Monotonous now. A fling. Poetry played over jazz.
Burning underneath desire, hanging over, like a bending flower head. A fear strong. Being unsure, questioning, pushing people away, an whole affair, an entire loss.
Collecting old memories of joyus particular moments.
Making attempts to hold and feel a content life, dripping into something, one expected or wanted. Just mercy now.
Voyage
Starvation
Servitude
Burning
Sun
Cold moon
Gathering
Around
A
Fallen
Star
Chanting
For
Romance
Like
The
Kind
Of
Romance
All
Those
Poets
Seem
To
Know
In
Intimate
Ways

Craving against to revolt against the life born into. Knowing at the back of one’s mind, one has
to revolt against the hesitation that one produces.
A manuscript to another tragedy. Expressions of fears, played out on stage. A grandeur melodramatic gestures. Saturating over earth. Cry more? Why for?
There's fortune in freedom. Effort is a must. Courage is trust with oneself. Horror inside. To do, it’s like its been tried before. A certain manner in one's own grace. Self-made beauty. Alluring. Everyone wanted to know, everyone wanted to, always pushed away.
Flashing eyes, widened and still,
mouth closed, clenching firsts. Cursing missed opportunities. Alone at home, safe and yet failing.
        Fascinated with Utopia. Calling out to poets.
        Quenching the fire.
         Asking for passion that flares and continue to progress.
Argue with self-worth.
Entangline with self doubt.
Staying mute.
Do i dare recite poetry to thee? Breaking out on impulse that keeps motivating.or just continue to loathe over unfulfilled wishes. Tomented to be locked in my own stillness.
For I’ve heard the garden of eden contained paradise.
Truth in beauty, it’s beauty because it holds truth.
(knowledge variable)

Grief is nothing until we reach it. Though we know, death is
always a definite, no matter what our inner world declares,
presents to us or it forms us. Dislocating us from the world
and providing less meaning, fading away, innocence loses
as the notion of expectations leaves us. Rendering to deal
with reality, alone.
(knowledge variable)

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.)

As for the romantics turning to poetry, in constant streams, knowing
all too well, about their own transgressions in their fragility, wishing
for another life, the theatre of emotions, heightening the world of
melodramatic, eyeglasses, blinks of love. Generally they’re with one,
rather than destiny’s choice in the other. And sometimes, the void
and despair is always self-created.

(How many more funerals do we have to endure, before realizing that not only life is here now, but one another. I am unsure what on the correct actions. But promise now, that I’m here and willing. And why is it, the only ones that are lonely are the ones who are real and can offer not only wishes of these earth but the offers from the world where Muses live?)
Thought I hit rock bottom, wouldn’t you if we could trade places, as others are getting rich, instead of a war on poverty, there’s a war of being normal and fitting in, came up and get pulled over but I’m legal and got away cause I’m clever. Ever meet someone who’s real and in development of being better than yesterday, every face is the same in your eyes, give me mind and don’t blame the dealers. Settling on less and point to the stars, on three, give love to the real mystics, you still feel me? Mystics get pushed to the side and forgotten about, because they’re introverted, I just remember James Dean and will live in death and now who’s the biggest gang in the world? The bourgeois or the trend followers? On my back because I’d rather be myself. They’ll pay top dollar for your soul, snap. One mystic teaches two mystics, three mystics teaches five, we don’t die, just multiply and blast on the lesser of worth. Soldiers of the century. A blessing to be somebody, so I’m a blessing to anyone I open up to. We all die one day. Ducking to abandon buildings, laugh till I’m crying, rushing behind me, carefree and if they dare me, I’ll share all my secrets and if they come and get me in the morning, Mason will rush the station in the evening. Normal telling me ‘no’, you’ve been waiting for this for a long time, its in my final moments of life. Jealous as people. Yearning freedom yet work to be normal. Work until the issues is burnt. Antisocial on purpose. Do it to them before it’s done to you and if I die by ******, take a look at my peers. From Manly to beach to Queens, keep your eyes on your prize. When the smoke clears, your soul is finally free, heart of soldier, brains to fill libraries, here on earth as Musing droppings and immortality is reached and experience. Do dirt, your hands will be *****. Live in the light and **** the darkness. Regret what you said, a life lived, not using the present to parent the future, a waste. Smile to brighten the stars because these shoulders can hold so much. There is a difference of mindless violence and deliberate actions. Conflictions happens within the duality of wanting to be yourself in silence and knowing wanting others to notice you without conforming. Life full of controversial. It won’t budge. Get and feel, get up because it’s real, get up and live. There’s a difference of living to fit in, while in mindless despair of knowing who you are. It’s unfortunate that one can forgive while one can’t forget simultaneously while living. Worsens when one can learn from it. Blasphemy when it teaches There’s snakes, silent people in the dark, there’s apples, people show their real self in the dark, there’s dogs and cats. You’ll never see them if you’re living in the fog.And if it’s a self produced fog, it means there is a self made solution. Don’t holler my name. Where poetry fails in no language in existence that describes everything about being human and being fully alive, when it comes to it, only the inner world is damaged because of it. Makes you nervous on purpose. Your inner world is your turf. Use not your chest puffed out, use your heart and walk like a giant. Sometimes it’s hard enough to deal with your family. You’re glad that they are made and just mad because they differ. **** this ****, I’m going into exile. Hanging with the gypsies, stolen my watch, bang on the camps, party with the moonshine in the veins, has a poet confessing secrets, while it inherents the wonders of this world, I like that and become a Muse in end of my life. I hold myself back, cause told not to let them phase me, otherwise they’ll make me crazy, couldn't catch me with my people, on my back because I choose to be different - snap. They wouldn’t understand even if I opened up, trying to stay free of mundane, pack of wisdom. Game is what my Muse gave. It’s not the way I made it. Wasn’t turned out this way, just the way I raised myself this way. But ****’em, they’ll die lonely in despair as the what's done in the dark comes to the light and wise laugh like the Joker. Addiction in my youth. Recovery approaching thirty. And all I saw is the same face. Got any last words? Not after me. Can’t make my life, nor can you take away my life, you can shoot one mystic, but can’t **** us all. Until learn, let us raise wisdom and the world of romance. Much love to the mystics who are there and ignored. I see clearly and the wants of the normal are pulling you down. One way or another, they’ll be giving it up. Here we go and don’t stop. I’m still around for you. Dispute the silence you give me. Despite the length of it took me. I’m refusing to give up and I’m seen as a major threat, cause I can remind you the things you want to forget and to what you want at the same time. I love it when you give me time and attention, because it’s what I can give you, but despise when you’re not around, cause it reminds me of the horrors of my own flaws.spitting facts and ain’t afraid the hold back. I ain’t like no other man, but lets trade places and you’ll be able to see what I do. And the only times that I change is when I get better, just add in humility mixed with introvert traits, and everyone forgets about me. Rendering questions of why bother and other jealous ones get the glory. And if it wasn’t overwhelming like the beauty of a Supernova, I’ll be running up on your lawn with all my might and blast enlightenment in your heart. For now, peace to real Mystics. Who get up and feel, because they know how real life is. And I ain't going back to hustle game. If it’s against all odds for love, than I’m willing to roll my dice. Not at the reasoning of never saying ‘no’, it’s because I’ve seen your worth and I’m blinded to the rest of the world, I rise myself to go after people who are worth than man’s gold, they’re always known for flashing. Touch my heart, I’ll open your soul to the Heavens above, it’s been written that I must, tell me no, avoid and throw anger. Do whatever, it will happen in the end. Be the real I’ll always be, breathing or dead. What would you do, if you were me?

What determines my character?

Like loss, it's more than letting go or peace in a gradual process. Our own mind has freedom, call it intelligence or imagination. We all know the truth & falsehood. But our self-realization is a combination of things, lead through experience. Slowly, we learn, call it truth, but it's a painful process of discovery or learning of our personal painful-regret. In not only what we did with our time. but to the time spent thinking about what we did, to those whom we loved too knowing we were only there for them. It's uncanny at times how we're thrown out of our normal life, coming to grips of what we wasted on. Regretting what we cared about, bounded upon on petty concerns or the things we thought we loved & it's not true.

In death or painful transitions, we'll look back & question what we were doing? When in normality or that comfort of an environment we have grown to know, our emotions tend to tell us, death isn't coming. Ideals are made to let us know who we can be, the pain of not putting effort into it will be far Superior to the daily pain of not doing so.

I’m not writing this in support of some doctrine, dogma, religion or philosophy.

The best ever compliment that I’ve ever received, is that I’m good enough

And the worst thing I could ever say to myself, don't ever change.

There’s politics, religion, culture. Things that people, families, communities, states, whoever had gone to war over. But no one ever protests ideas. With what we call truth & lies, there’s nothing to determine that besides our very emotional attachment. At the moment, I render that at the end of learning is absolutes, knowing the minds of gods, the daily lives of cultured masters and secrets of the common people, dead or alive.

Its ideas with a heartbeat and we attach ourselves to attainable actions when it’s exhausted, it’s either mundane or normal, comfortable or even useless, cause we don’t feel it.

This isn’t to make anyone feel bad or even to prove anyone wrong.

But there’s a price to pay when thinking for oneself. Hearing about the world being a totality of things, if one isn’t puzzled about it, life, society, civilization, culture or politics, it’s a possibility one is replica mind of another or it’s under total control. Is it better to work out consciously and critically one's own conception of the world and thus, in connection with the labours of one's own brain, choose one's sphere of activity, take an active part in the creation of the history of the world, be one's own guide, refusing to accept passively and supinely from outside the moulding of one' own personality? People hesitate. People tend not to think when the flow of life is normal. No one ever thinks about their external environment, whether it be peers, family, lovers or their spouse, not even the actions their dictate. What determines quality? It’s hard to come to grips when one’s internal life isn’t reflected in the external outside times of pain and suffering or feeling flat, when we’re starkly reminded of we’re doing the right thing or not?

It’s hard to let go of things that we care about, a community, a lover, a friend or even a daily routine such as coffee in the morning. All things come to an end and I think death is the harshness of reality. I say this stuff in order to think about one's character rather appeasing the external. Our very mind controls so much of it, often, if it feels good, we generally don’t think about it until those painful moments. None of what I’m saying is new, we can admire people on what they do, but despite who they are, example, we can admire someone creating an altruistic company but doing on an external command, like for wages or being a model employee. Fleeing ideas, forgetting what we’re doing. Often we do things in hopes of appeasing the outside or what we do will amount to contentment in the future. I’m not supporting the self-doing something for the selfishness of self-interest, but to develop a character of balance where it’s fulfilling, having the essentials as the bonus is a contribution to reality.

In a way, I am supporting one to develop a personalized individual philosophy. Feeling and knowing can be two completely different things. The now is a letting go of not only the personal past that's lived but of the future one will never experience.

By doing so, you’ll learn a lot, of not only what one is doing with their time, but to our peers, family and lovers. It’s shocking to how much the external is here for only that. And it’s worse to know when one has to gradual learn how to self develop into self-validation.

When it comes to fear and the Devil,
I fear more of the people who fear the Devil,
than the Devil himself. They come in many forms,
they’re more of a plague than the sinful. Whether
it’s church, the poor streets of commoners, government
building, banks, peers and family or in literature.
The sinners just want financial profit. Those
fearing the Devil want you to conform to their
ideology. I often wonder on the Devil’s greatest
trick. Whether it’s in atheism or sin industry.
To me, it’s providing not only permission for self made
higher powers, but the freedom to choose between
higher powers. But I laugh when I read into other dogma,
there is no other religious teachings stronger on self responsibility
than there is in Satanism. Stupidity is their first sin.

Laymen, I do not hate you, I just wish
not to be like you, rather die of passion
than boredom, blended with the rest.
I’m in too deep. Thou Shall not steal,
Thou Shall not squeal the secrets, Thou
Shall not ****, rub me the wrong way,
Laymen, I will, Thou Shall not cheat,
Thou Shall not born mystic, one has to
work for it. Civilization will not reach
perfection, until the last philosopher stone
has fallen on the last sinner. Be concerned
of not period of humanity, past, present
or future, always be focused on this current
life, the intensity and rawness of it all.
Laymen, it is fate, I wish not to be like you,
there is no other greater sin to any culture
than ignorance in action and trust me,
and it has not relation to economic poverty
when it comes to war.  
(knowledge variable)

Be absorbed by lust, afresh & anew.
lose in passion.
But do no wrong to others, they’ll have
nothing against you. Keep your secrets a secret,
hold no resentment, curse
them. If they do you wrong, confide in a Demon.

with days of despair,
filled with heartbreak,
I'm still alive,
and its never ending

lover thy,
don't know what to do
or say,
im just happy around you

THYSELF
By Darcy Prince

‘Thy mind is like a tree,
easy to letting go of dead leaves’

Ponder on the mystery, paradox of facet, unknown is my life, passion and drive, not for you, wrapped up in self-made ignorance, my own soul is content and my own meaning, it is thy cosmos, everything and muse. Not for you. It bleeds hate, than in ******* session, it breeds more, just to shatter your very essence. Respect to the Devil. Divine meeting before death. Let go, you’re not dangerous in the defeat. There is no morals, ethics, laws or rules that plucked me up, confine thy character in, my own thought is mosaic, dogma and the word, I’m unflinching, without a heartbeat, without a sound I slide down. Peer and peek into your soul with a ******* vest, trigger happy and I boom.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Killing-Philosophy-Reflection-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07F9QVCW4/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1539149191&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

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

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)

To a poem,
I can say whatever I want,
but often with regret,
for its something I don’t
say in a previous moment.

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.)

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.

Underneath, there’s a stream of something different,
tender feelings, fear, broken pieces, memories, wishes
of the future, a complete inner-world, where everything
is speaking in poetics. Maybe a whole disaster. Touched
and ever flowing. Shattered over the crackling floor.
Where everyone seems to step on. Musings, letting me
know, endurance and there is no promise of life. Maybe
it’s you that’s destiny. Colliding together. For I’ve written
poetry before. Because I wanted t say everything to you,
without fault of forgetting and still want to say everything,
without skipping a beat. I’m desirous of all of it, everything
that comes with love, simultaneously and burst in explosion,
as if love was the first time ever. Actions in wild passion,
forgetting what’s underneath, I’m wanting to love now. Like
if forever exist. Validation happens in love. The mastering
of flaws, happens in love. Perhaps even streams of the
stronger, meaning of one’s life. For we know, bypassing the
unexpected turn, the horror of stumbling upon love, poetry
would of never started, if wasn’t for moments like this. There
is life without you, for that I cry, it’s something I would rather
not, endure if I must, viewing the world with hate and complete
bitterness.
(knowledge variable)

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.

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

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)

To poetry,
There is all kinds of women out there, women in the physical form, it’s only their personality is there difference is & where I value, soft spoken voices, touches over poetry curves, breathes & gasps, eyes like stars I gaze upon, addiction to romance, lets us talk in deep discussion, if not, let me glare deep in the eyes that you own, experience life together, let me experience you, love is a deep concern of mine. But such concerns I cannot commit to pen & paper that produces poetry. Love, bleeding into one soul as neo-enlightenment.

Oh poetry, oh lover,
perhaps love itself, only exists, when it’s
adored. Something we all dream of, going
beyond of losing reality. Love, a phantom
within our inner-world, creating void, until
it reaches a spark, with the help of wildfire
that shoots pasts our soul, into the external
world. Than the reality, we all grew up and
lived in prior, no-longer becomes real, on
the account, it loses value and meaning.
And only the world that the love created is
real. Life can be a dramatic grandeur scene,
lost in the development of original and intended
fate, by those brave enough to follow, or it’s not.
Our bodies, a canvas, love is the paint.
Perhaps love itself, does not exist, perhaps
it does not. Oh let us find out.
(Knowledge Variable)

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)

One person finding a path
for
morals, improvement, humility,
could bring down
the wall of vice, changing
the whimper into a bang

I support truth,
in that,
I confess I’d rather
be immortal
& forget everyone
I’ve ever met.

My only empathy I have towards truth,
it cannot be meet without some sort
of resentment. It lights a quiet earth,
sparks conversations after thoughts.
To what I can smile at, an effort to improve.
Plato, lonely is it ever truth is. Conflicting
views, based on emotion, that devalues
parts of life. Plato, perhaps it’s not the
contents of truth, just a matter of
respect.
(knowledge variable)

I

In magic folklore, as tangible, as real,
in the world I see now,
I heard no more of the everyday person, but
a shocking scream I’d never
forget, what a weeping beauty that
in a instant, of golden glow,
has highlighted everything of ugly
& saw everything for as it is, it was never Holy.

Poetic boys, don't let em catch you slipping, don’t get hurt, the depth of one’s love, the depth of wounds of later moments, it’s contraband, can’t feel anything, when will I learn?
The shame is coming, with eyes wide open, holding onto to dear life, I should of stayed calm, but I’ll run into self-destruction when in vulnerability, asking question to what's the matter?
When it gets real, I’ll sabotage, when I push away, I want to say sorry, but silence is the reply, wishing I could let people inside.
To when I see someone, with the heart of a soldier, with the brains to teach a whole nation, I want to lay until the sun rises, the essence of a muse, nothing else I pull into frame & display with such shame, than the totality of my own flaws & left lonely.
Whoever said the struggle will stop today,
mystics get shot everyday,
while they’ve got money for war, but can’t feed the poor.
I’m obsessed of satisfying with creative temperament to a dormant & quiet people, it feels that no one can accept both of my own duality. Straight from the start, speaking truth, even if its hate in return, spitting from dark, it’s poetic, after the show, one sits alone & ignored. Late nights, bright lights, lust & lies, loading in the limousine, with people’s hands hand but no-one is giving out, can I really blame people for trying to get what they can? I might lose my soul, but who knows what I’ll find? I’m blessed to know another, hoping in return I can do the same.

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

with fire in the heart,
fever in the
veins.
Everybody hurts
& no-one
owes me anything

come to me,
if it comes easy,
it shall go out
hard,
pain.

to live first,
everything else is optional,
besides consequences

You’re not in ease, cause your heart
isn’t in it, the heart won’t afford another feeling,
from the depth
of the inside, missed out on
life.

Just remember, the most common face can hide the most sinful acts of humanity. And generally no worse the rest of us. For any evil to be accepted, one must spend time demoralizing it in the public sphere. Let it become normal. Remember, ignorance is bliss and Lavey first Satanic sin is in regards to stupidity. For most, morals and ethics are for the others in suits and one’s in isolated libraries. For it at times, monotonous, boring, lowkey, faceless and holding no emotion. In a fog, you can buy a gift for a boy, jumping joy and wagging tail, to which lives in amazement, as smiles from friends, surprised to see crime in the streets as no one places value on education. Do not judge the one who preaches evil, but judge on the size of the mob and every individual there. Anyone in modern age can be anything, including a higher power and veiled pagan attributes. Evil is cannot be cured with evil, as it eats on the same table as you. As a Satanist, I am my own hero and greatest enemy. If I contribute to reality, that is my only connection to a larger society. For both goodness and evil is relative. People work, people live, people love and people cry. Nothing in this world people hold more dearer to their hearts than the things they had worked for. As for that, it is where evil will value. To be completely successful in this life, requires a lot of ego and more ignorance, when it’s too late, your soul had been lost.
https://www.amazon.com.au/Inherent-Sin-Darcy-Prince-ebook/dp/B07FR5FW42/ref=sr13?ie=UTF8&qid=1532992472&sr=8-3&keywords=darcy+prince

The conversation I only want to witness, is not
between the Devil and God. It’s one between
Van Gogh and Mozart. When I meet my own
creator, I know better than most, I’ll keep my
petty complaints for myself and I shall listen
only. Poet, a fragile creature, yearning love and
actual wisdom, that surpasses them to be a mere
Human. Clumsy hands, that always write the
wrong words, to the wrong poems, forming them
all wrong, where humanity is willing to devote
themselves, to such great works of art. I’ll never
be Rumi. Oh thy Muse, how peaceful would life
be without love. There would be no wars to fight
within myself. Let all poetry be contradiction
within themselves, like all poets inside their
inner-world to their exterior.  
(Knowledge Variable)

Inside to inner life, enticing lovers to come forward, a landscape richness of images and emotions. Marble statues, raised in her image, paying homage to god-like achievement.
Never to be loosened, folklore mixing in with reality. Weaved poems from casting romance roles, under moonlight and around candlelight. Green glow and owls.
Sleepless night, meeting one’s own dream, when those myths collide with reality to explode over earth, as every word in dogma is instantly forgotten. And it’s too late, she’s burnt in the memory of immortality. It’s a exorcism from humanities sins, hidden demons and no holy water.
History is dull.
As the romantic place in poetry, providing praise. Smile knowing there isn’t anything wrong of forever believing in spellbinding love. For living outside being so, not worth living. Stepping outside the paradox. The commitment to love, processed over a lifetime and built from scratch. No one ever has to wait, taking comfort in poetry, dipped in honey. Perhaps it’s glory, poetic exaggeration, though everyone wants to be saved, perhaps no one really does, though it’s always the other that saves, to be on a pedal steel with roses thrown to the feet is the only price to pay, is one some do turn away from. Cigarette smoke in jazz ballads. Fear not, fear never and the only regret is loss of life of one’s personal history in avoiding thee. Maybe we’re just molded from the same star and just wanted to discover ourselves first. Life happens now and it never waits. For now, in regal imagery, I see in, death is still definite.
A tyrant to one’s heart,
the foundation for humanities poetry,
and when I think of love, it’s your actions is what come
first to my mind’s eye.
As for poetry, will never truly understand or express
deep love that’s experienced.
And worry, I’ll never be able to fulfill musings ways of love.
Despite poetry’s attempt to teach.
A person, that Heaven can’t replace with any Angel.
Perhaps this only a dream.
But I learnt from poetry, it's good
to have feelings and just want to vibe.

poem:
words that haven't been said,
gaining new life,
but I'm wanting attention,
i am conspicuousness

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.)

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

I maybe cliche, I maybe melodramatic,
attending to my intense emotions,
luminous & free, painful & curse like,
liberty I wanted, but its freedom
from myself to what I need.