Poetry is only the lament
of a lover's soul.

I want to be me
but everyone has these expectations
where I cannot be free.
I am trapped in a being
One of utter selfishness and selflessness
one that doesn’t have meaning.
There is so much buried down so deep
I’m too afraid and too tired to dig it all out
that he final solution seems to be eternal sleep.

you said you were in love,
you claimed to be in utopia,
you called her your light, your everything,
did a single soul know who it was for?
She is supposed to be me.
I thought she was me..
until you joked with a girl about marrying her
and ******* her...
when you were supposed to be mine,
and you left and came back
expecting me to be there when in my heart I moved on.
you neglected me,
and still expected me to satisfy your disgusting desires.
you left me that last time
as I was about to leave for good.
you left with the last lie
and found someone else
that I can tell has been in your sights
for the longest
because now that I’m gone,
you don't have to waste your time.

Nec possum tecum vivere, nec sine te.
It will end in death either way.

You are the sweetest poison.
The more I drank, the more I wanted.
The more I got, the more I died.
And then when I was finally denied,
I met my demise.

Or rather..
Love is a poison and you're my cure. If I can't have you, then I'm just killing myself. And you're just watching me die.

Call it the love child of art and philosophy
Or a connection of souls that goes beyond sociology
However deliberate and empirical
Or attentive and lyrical
The carefully chosen words paint a masterpiece in your mind
About the emotions derived
from experiences behind.
Let the words fill every crevice of your memory through time
While they may be different from theirs and mine.
Poetry is a music that resonates in our being
Sitting
in our hearts, is freeing
but especially, actively paints that uniquely perfect picture as it should
As I have tried, my hand never could.

An auspicious vicissitude
Can easily become a brevity of euphoria
And emotions become a poetic verbiage
In our unuttered votive of veracity
Due to our mind's vicarious compliance with our heart's volition

The morning brings renewal
And the stream of sunlight
Washes away
The tears of yesternight

due to the power supply
being interrupted yesterday
very little light shone
in my long hallway

the electricity company didn't care
that I was in a darkened space
where I couldn't find
the umbrella stand's trace

it was a most inconsiderate
power outage
which did leave me
in a thorough outrage

there I was looking around
about the dark
without an iota of a luminous
lit spark

the next time the electricity provider
decides to flick off the switch
I trust it will send me a notification
telling of the shadowy pitch