‘We all better lives,
very few of us, want
to be better people’

With the keys to immortality, I sold
my soul, the prices was cheap, walking
into church, holding Nietzsche's hand,
bursting into a ball of flames,
on the hall of fame when it comes to
pill popping, turned clean, I’m on
the wall of shame, should not be walking,
we got nothing in common, I’m a
white trash god.

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)

Writing poems, to holding heartbeats, from tears
to potential, butterflies over flowers, tender poems
in tender moments, lips parting, souls wanting to
share, what are the chances to meet a figure formed
here in reality, that not only matched, but exceeded
your dreams?
(knowledge variable)

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.

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

Not everyone is made to measure
the infinite, for those who do. Are
generally viewed upon as a paradox.
Mastering freedom, equaling to their
mystical duties, higher than humanity.
Human wealth parallels human desire,
I saw Mozart surpass everything we
know, reaching immortality, passing
human fame. Now I want do it to.

In reading past philosopher's, a concerto conversation
in historic fashion and expressed in poetry. A soul
trembling, mystic produced, words to murmur all through
a moon-lit, silver night and see the sun rise again.
Descent from the mundane, where void is birthed,
watch life expressed in mystical beauty.
(Knowledge Variable)

Being alone is created from vast amounts of reasons,
quiet minds, quiet mouths, loud poetry and demanding
art. Prying eyes are constant from the outside. Peering
always. Never a helping hand. Not an expressive concern.
Working hard to endure, harder to be oneself. It’s easy to
be like everyone else. Poet continues to dream and lays
it out onto papers, blanket words, for dreaming about
the grandeur greatness, in art and in social forms, are
far more exciting than being one. For it’s sad how much
of life is filled with the mundane. Muddy and murky.
And how disappointing it is when one steps out, to be
something of themselves.
(knowledge variable)

to the words
never said, not to leave my speech,
just not articulated

Romantic gestures in a relentless fashion,
conscious in every moment, closing into
enlightenment, blooming to boundless
edges, like the lotus, newly found love,
from a starting point of fulfillment.
Finishing on something beyond conception.

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 intrigue can get
one entangled with another,
I'm so pretty, don’t do it to me,
you’ll leave, can’t keep up,
cause I’m contraband, so you’ll
find another, latch onto them,
cause their in pain.
You go tell someone, rub my tummy
get your fix.

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

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

Luminous words formatted
with clear conscious of vivid
strokes of the hands. A shame
that it didn’t get the results
as one desired.

deeper the despair,
more fair the cries,
darker the thoughts,
brighter the light.

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.

without
a sound, you slide down,
poetic dreaming
screaming loudly.
I was so wrong

aren't we all a little hesitant
to allow unexpected love
to enter

As not in poetry, for when a romantic falls in love and it’s given back, all those wishes in yearning dreams explode at once, fallen over in dripping embers, matching beauty fireflies, symbols in poems. Romantic gestures in labouring hands, repertoires and addiction is apparent. No muse could ever possibly help detox the romantic.
Despite the cliche of meeting in
glances in the eyes and that smile
that doesn’t restrain itself. Not even a supernova could come between, no conversation of a tempting Demon could distract, not even the promise of Heaven by any Angel could tear down their connection.
Changing the ways their pray along with their very essence of existence.
Call it blasphemy if you want, not knowing God’s opinion. Exalting feelings in poetic sentiments. Marble statues raised in homage.
Romantics turned lovers.
Fate is here and never meet until now. Revelation inside and a revolution in a quiet mood. A paradox in this world. Lovers living their destiny as the rest of humanity whimper in conforming ways.

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.

To construct wisdom requires fulfilling experiencing life,
without fear and obligation to humanity, musings end up,
caring and laying thought out for others to interrupt or to
disregard, only in boredom can desire happening, a life
without action results of constant yearnings, only hopeless
romantics die of a broken heart and those who had gone
out into the world with insecure intent and sinful manner
veiled over with ego live out remaining days with shame.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmjqMZmSOnw

Serpent in poet’s garden, her in my mind,
demons and angels, wrestle, all wanted
is rebirth in poetry. Still sinful as I write
in graceful poetry. When I romance, I
do it right. Though when I sin in lust,
to spills over onto the Earth’s soil.

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

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.

lover thy,
no words can be
used in translation to describe
the emotions felt

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

aesthetic words
to attract your eyes
to read over,
it wasn't the beauty
I wanted to show,
just what I wanted to say

Holy justice,
just dying.

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.