Incipit Prohemium Secundi Libri.

Out of these blake wawes for to sayle,
O wind, O wind, the weder ginneth clere;
For in this see the boot hath swich travayle,
Of my conning, that unnethe I it stere:
This see clepe I the tempestous matere  
Of desespeyr that Troilus was inne:
But now of hope the calendes biginne.
O lady myn, that called art Cleo,
Thou be my speed fro this forth, and my muse,
To ryme wel this book, til I have do;  
Me nedeth here noon other art to use.
For-why to every lovere I me excuse,
That of no sentement I this endyte,
But out of Latin in my tonge it wryte.

Wherfore I nil have neither thank ne blame  
Of al this werk, but prey yow mekely,
Disblameth me if any word be lame,
For as myn auctor seyde, so seye I.
Eek though I speke of love unfelingly,
No wondre is, for it no-thing of newe is;  
A blind man can nat Iuggen wel in hewis.

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
With-inne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,  
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

And for-thy if it happe in any wyse,
That here be any lovere in this place  
That herkneth, as the storie wol devyse,
How Troilus com to his lady grace,
And thenketh, so nolde I nat love purchace,
Or wondreth on his speche or his doinge,
I noot; but it is me no wonderinge;  

For every wight which that to Rome went,
Halt nat o path, or alwey o manere;
Eek in som lond were al the gamen shent,
If that they ferde in love as men don here,
As thus, in open doing or in chere,  
In visitinge, in forme, or seyde hire sawes;
For-thy men seyn, ech contree hath his lawes.

Eek scarsly been ther in this place three
That han in love seid lyk and doon in al;
For to thy purpos this may lyken thee,  
And thee right nought, yet al is seyd or shal;
Eek som men grave in tree, som in stoon wal,
As it bitit; but sin I have begonne,
Myn auctor shal I folwen, if I conne.

Exclipit prohemium Secundi Libri.

Incipit Liber Secundus.

In May, that moder is of monthes glade,  
That fresshe floures, blewe, and whyte, and rede,
Ben quike agayn, that winter dede made,
And ful of bawme is fleting every mede;
Whan Phebus doth his brighte bemes sprede
Right in the whyte Bole, it so bitidde  
As I shal singe, on Mayes day the thridde,

That Pandarus, for al his wyse speche,
Felt eek his part of loves shottes kene,
That, coude he never so wel of loving preche,
It made his hewe a-day ful ofte grene;  
So shoop it, that hym fil that day a tene
In love, for which in wo to bedde he wente,
And made, er it was day, ful many a wente.

The swalwe Proigne, with a sorwful lay,
Whan morwe com, gan make hir waymentinge,  
Why she forshapen was; and ever lay
Pandare a-bedde, half in a slomeringe,
Til she so neigh him made hir chiteringe
How Tereus gan forth hir suster take,
That with the noyse of hir he gan a-wake;  

And gan to calle, and dresse him up to ryse,
Remembringe him his erand was to done
From Troilus, and eek his greet empryse;
And caste and knew in good plyt was the mone
To doon viage, and took his wey ful sone  
Un-to his neces paleys ther bi-syde;
Now Ianus, god of entree, thou him gyde!

Whan he was come un-to his neces place,
'Wher is my lady?' to hir folk seyde he;
And they him tolde; and he forth in gan pace,  
And fond, two othere ladyes sete and she,
With-inne a paved parlour; and they three
Herden a mayden reden hem the geste
Of the Sege of Thebes, whyl hem leste.

Quod Pandarus, 'Ma dame, god yow see,  
With al your book and al the companye!'
'Ey, uncle myn, welcome y-wis,' quod she,
And up she roos, and by the hond in hye
She took him faste, and seyde, 'This night thrye,
To goode mote it turne, of yow I mette!'  
And with that word she doun on bench him sette.

'Ye, nece, ye shal fare wel the bet,
If god wole, al this yeer,' quod Pandarus;
'But I am sory that I have yow let
To herknen of your book ye preysen thus;  
For goddes love, what seith it? tel it us.
Is it of love? O, som good ye me lere!'
'Uncle,' quod she, 'your maistresse is not here!'

With that they gonnen laughe, and tho she seyde,
'This romaunce is of Thebes, that we rede;  
And we han herd how that king Laius deyde
Thurgh Edippus his sone, and al that dede;
And here we stenten at these lettres rede,
How the bisshop, as the book can telle,
Amphiorax, fil thurgh the ground to helle.'  

Quod Pandarus, 'Al this knowe I my-selve,
And al the assege of Thebes and the care;
For her-of been ther maked bokes twelve: --
But lat be this, and tel me how ye fare;
Do wey your barbe, and shew your face bare;  
Do wey your book, rys up, and lat us daunce,
And lat us don to May som observaunce.'

'A! God forbede!' quod she. 'Be ye mad?
Is that a widewes lyf, so god you save?
By god, ye maken me right sore a-drad,  
Ye ben so wilde, it semeth as ye rave!
It sete me wel bet ay in a cave
To bidde, and rede on holy seyntes lyves;
Lat maydens gon to daunce, and yonge wyves.'

'As ever thryve I,' quod this Pandarus,  
'Yet coude I telle a thing to doon you pleye.'
'Now, uncle dere,' quod she, 'tel it us
For goddes love; is than the assege aweye?
I am of Grekes so ferd that I deye.'
'Nay, nay,' quod he, 'as ever mote I thryve!  
It is a thing wel bet than swiche fyve.'

'Ye, holy god,' quod she, 'what thing is that?
What! Bet than swiche fyve? Ey, nay, y-wis!
For al this world ne can I reden what
It sholde been; som Iape, I trowe, is this;  
And but your-selven telle us what it is,
My wit is for to arede it al to lene;
As help me god, I noot nat what ye meene.'

'And I your borow, ne never shal, for me,
This thing be told to yow, as mote I thryve!'  
'And why so, uncle myn? Why so?' quod she.
'By god,' quod he, 'that wole I telle as blyve;
For prouder womman were ther noon on-lyve,
And ye it wiste, in al the toun of Troye;
I iape nought, as ever have I Ioye!'  

Tho gan she wondren more than biforn
A thousand fold, and doun hir eyen caste;
For never, sith the tyme that she was born,
To knowe thing desired she so faste;
And with a syk she seyde him at the laste,  
'Now, uncle myn, I nil yow nought displese,
Nor axen more, that may do yow disese.'

So after this, with many wordes glade,
And freendly tales, and with mery chere,
Of this and that they pleyde, and gunnen wade  
In many an unkouth glad and deep matere,
As freendes doon, whan they ben met y-fere;
Til she gan axen him how Ector ferde,
That was the tounes wal and Grekes yerde.

'Ful wel, I thanke it god,' quod Pandarus,  
'Save in his arm he hath a litel wounde;
And eek his fresshe brother Troilus,
The wyse worthy Ector the secounde,
In whom that ever vertu list abounde,
As alle trouthe and alle gentillesse,  
Wysdom, honour, fredom, and worthinesse.'

'In good feith, eem,' quod she, 'that lyketh me;
They faren wel, god save hem bothe two!
For trewely I holde it greet deyntee
A kinges sone in armes wel to do,  
And been of good condiciouns ther-to;
For greet power and moral vertu here
Is selde y-seye in o persone y-fere.'

'In good feith, that is sooth,' quod Pandarus;
'But, by my trouthe, the king hath sones tweye,  
That is to mene, Ector and Troilus,
That certainly, though that I sholde deye,
They been as voyde of vyces, dar I seye,
As any men that liveth under the sonne,
Hir might is wyde y-knowe, and what they conne.  

'Of Ector nedeth it nought for to telle:
In al this world ther nis a bettre knight
Than he, that is of worthinesse welle;
And he wel more vertu hath than might.
This knoweth many a wys and worthy wight.  
The same prys of Troilus I seye,
God help me so, I knowe not swiche tweye.'

'By god,' quod she, 'of Ector that is sooth;
Of Troilus the same thing trowe I;
For, dredelees, men tellen that he dooth  
In armes day by day so worthily,
And bereth him here at hoom so gentilly
To every wight, that al the prys hath he
Of hem that me were levest preysed be.'

'Ye sey right sooth, y-wis,' quod Pandarus;  
'For yesterday, who-so hadde with him been,
He might have wondred up-on Troilus;
For never yet so thikke a swarm of been
Ne fleigh, as Grekes fro him gonne fleen;
And thorugh the feld, in everi wightes ere,  
Ther nas no cry but "Troilus is there!"

'Now here, now there, he hunted hem so faste,
Ther nas but Grekes blood; and Troilus,
Now hem he hurte, and hem alle doun he caste;
Ay where he wente, it was arayed thus:  
He was hir deeth, and sheld and lyf for us;
That as that day ther dorste noon with-stonde,
Whyl that he held his blody swerd in honde.

'Therto he is the freendlieste man
Of grete estat, that ever I saw my lyve;  
And wher him list, best felawshipe can
To suche as him thinketh able for to thryve.'
And with that word tho Pandarus, as blyve,
He took his leve, and seyde, 'I wol go henne.'
'Nay, blame have I, myn uncle,' quod she thenne.  

'What eyleth yow to be thus wery sone,
And namelich of wommen? Wol ye so?
Nay, sitteth down; by god, I have to done
With yow, to speke of wisdom er ye go.'
And every wight that was a-boute hem tho,  
That herde that, gan fer a-wey to stonde,
Whyl they two hadde al that hem liste in honde.

Whan that hir tale al brought was to an ende,
Of hire estat and of hir governaunce,
Quod Pandarus, 'Now is it tyme I wende;  
But yet, I seye, aryseth, lat us daunce,
And cast your widwes habit to mischaunce:
What list yow thus your-self to disfigure,
Sith yow is tid thus fair an aventure?'

'A! Wel bithought! For love of god,' quod she,  
'Shal I not witen what ye mene of this?'
'No, this thing axeth layser,' tho quod he,
'And eek me wolde muche greve, y-wis,
If I it tolde, and ye it **** amis.
Yet were it bet my tonge for to stille  
Than seye a sooth that were ayeins your wille.

'For, nece, by the goddesse Minerve,
And Iuppiter, that maketh the thonder ringe,
And by the blisful Venus that I serve,
Ye been the womman in this world livinge,  
With-oute paramours, to my wittinge,
That I best love, and lothest am to greve,
And that ye witen wel your-self, I leve.'

'Y-wis, myn uncle,' quod she, 'grant mercy;
Your freendship have I founden ever yit;  
I am to no man holden trewely,
So muche as yow, and have so litel quit;
And, with the grace of god, emforth my wit,
As in my gilt I shal you never offende;
And if I have er this, I wol amende.  

'But, for the love of god, I yow beseche,
As ye ben he that I love most and triste,
Lat be to me your fremde manere speche,
And sey to me, your nece, what yow liste:'
And with that word hir uncle anoon hir kiste,  
And seyde, 'Gladly, leve nece dere,
Tak it for good that I shal seye yow here.'

With that she gan hir eiyen doun to caste,
And Pandarus to coghe gan a lyte,
And seyde, 'Nece, alwey, lo! To the laste,  
How-so it be that som men hem delyte
With subtil art hir tales for to endyte,
Yet for al that, in hir entencioun
Hir tale is al for som conclusioun.

'And sithen thende is every tales strengthe,  
And this matere is so bihovely,
What sholde I peynte or drawen it on lengthe
To yow, that been my freend so feithfully?'
And with that word he gan right inwardly
Biholden hir, and loken on hir face,  
And seyde, 'On suche a mirour goode grace!'

Than thoughte he thus: 'If I my tale endyte
Ought hard, or make a proces any whyle,
She shal no savour han ther-in but lyte,
And trowe I wolde hir in my wil bigyle.  
For tendre wittes wenen al be wyle
Ther-as they can nat pleynly understonde;
For-thy hir wit to serven wol I fonde --'

And loked on hir in a besy wyse,
And she was war that he byheld hir so,  
And seyde, 'Lord! So faste ye me avyse!
Sey ye me never er now? What sey ye, no?'
'Yes, yes,' quod he, 'and bet wole er I go;
But, by my trouthe, I thoughte now if ye
Be fortunat, for now men shal it see.  

'For to every wight som goodly aventure
Som tyme is shape, if he it can receyven;
And if that he wol take of it no cure,
Whan that it commeth, but wilfully it weyven,
Lo, neither cas nor fortune him deceyven,  
But right his verray slouthe and wrecchednesse;
And swich a wight is for to blame, I gesse.

'Good aventure, O bele nece, have ye
Ful lightly founden, and ye conne it take;
And, for the love of god, and eek of me,  
Cacche it anoon, lest aventure slake.
What sholde I lenger proces of it make?
Yif me your hond, for in this world is noon,
If that yow list, a wight so wel begoon.

'And sith I speke of good entencioun,  
As I to yow have told wel here-biforn,
And love as wel your honour and renoun
As creature in al this world y-born;
By alle the othes that I have yow sworn,
And ye be wrooth therfore, or wene I lye,  
Ne shal I never seen yow eft with ye.

'Beth nought agast, ne quaketh nat; wher-to?
Ne chaungeth nat for fere so your hewe;
For hardely the werste of this is do;
And though my tale as now be to yow newe,  
Yet trist alwey, ye shal me finde trewe;
And were it thing that me thoughte unsittinge,
To yow nolde I no swiche tales bringe.'

'Now, my good eem, for goddes love, I preye,'
Quod she, 'com of, and tel me what it is;  
For bothe I am agast what ye wol seye,
And eek me longeth it to wite, y-wis.
For whether it be wel or be amis,
Say on, lat me not in this fere dwelle:'
'So wol I doon; now herkneth, I shal telle:  

'Now, nece myn, the kinges dere sone,
The goode, wyse, worthy, fresshe, and free,
Which alwey for to do wel is his wone,
The noble Troilus, so loveth thee,
That, bot ye helpe, it wol his bane be.  
Lo, here is al, what sholde I more seye?
Doth what yow list, to make him live or deye.

'But if ye lete him deye, I wol sterve;
Have her my trouthe, nece, I nil not lyen;
Al sholde I with this knyf my throte kerve --'  
With that the teres braste out of his yen,
And seyde, 'If that ye doon us bothe dyen,
Thus giltelees, than have ye fisshed faire;
What mende ye, though that we bothe apeyre?

'Allas! He which that is my lord so dere,  
That trewe man, that noble gentil knight,
That nought desireth but your freendly chere,
I see him deye, ther he goth up-right,
And hasteth him, with al his fulle might,
For to be slayn, if fortune wol assente;  
Allas! That god yow swich a beautee sente!

'If it be so that ye so cruel be,
That of his deeth yow liste nought to recche,
That is so trewe and worthy, as ye see,
No more than of a Iapere or a wrecche,  
If ye be swich, your beautee may not strecche
To make amendes of so cruel a dede;
Avysement is good bifore the nede.

'Wo worth the faire gemme vertulees!
Wo worth that herbe also that dooth no bote!  
Wo worth that beautee that is routhelees!
Wo worth that wight that tret ech under fote!
And ye, that been of beautee crop and rote,
If therwith-al in you ther be no routhe,
Than is it harm ye liven, by my trouthe!  

'And also thenk wel that this is no gaude;
For me were lever, thou and I and he
Were hanged, than I sholde been his baude,
As heyghe, as men mighte on us alle y-see:
I am thyn eem, the shame were to me,  
As wel as thee, if that I sholde assente,
Thorugh myn abet, that he thyn honour shente.

'Now understond, for I yow nought requere,
To binde yow to him thorugh no beheste,
But only that ye make him bettre chere  
Than ye han doon er this, and more feste,
So that his lyf be saved, at the leste;
This al and som, and playnly our entente;
God help me so, I never other mente.

'Lo, this request is not but skile, y-wis,  
Ne doute of reson, pardee, is ther noon.
I sette the worste that ye dredden this,
Men wolden wondren seen him come or goon:
Ther-ayeins answere I thus a-noon,
That every wight, but he be fool of kinde,  
Wol deme it love of freendship in his minde.

'What? Who wol deme, though he see a man
To temple go, that he the images eteth?
Thenk eek how wel and wy

If he begs you to get back together with him and then breaks your heart,
He's not worth it.
If he tells you he'd sleep with your best friend,
He's not worth it.
If he brings up your past in which he was not involved in,
He's not worth it.
If he maked you want to douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against his cheek,
He's not worth it.
If he makes you feel like you are not a priority,
He's not worth it.
If he doesn't cry when you say goodbye for the last time,
He's not worth it.
If he doesn't let you call him late at night because this whole thing is killing you inside,
Then he's not worth it.
If he makes you want to take bottles and bottles of pills just to keep you from thinking about him,
Then he's not worth it.
He's not worth crying over day after day.
He's not worth the untouched food on your plate.
He's not worth those twenty pounds that you lost from lack of hunger.
He's not worth losing sleep over.
He's not worth beating myself up to death.
He's not worth the millions of missed calls you've sent him.
He's not worth the desperation in your voice when you beg him to stay.
He's not worth any of it.
You say you're confused and he doesn't give you closure.
He has all of your things in his house still,
And those things no longer hold value, because he's not worth the pain.
He's not worth the agony.
Talk to yourself in the mall, in the car, in your bed whenever you feel alone.
There are things you never got to say.
But talking to him at this point just makes things worse..
Block his number and all of his social media.
The thought of him ever wanting to come back to you after this will burn holes in your shoes.
He never really appreciated what you had to offer.
And trust me, I know it hurts.
But your friends will never have the right words to say.
Your family won't allow you to drive to his house in the middle of then night when you are broken and hell bent.
Romance, for me, so often ends in painstaking heart ache.
So you need to gather yourself.
Get up.
Brush your teeth.
Take a shower.
Eat a homecooked meal.
Go to work.
Start working out.
And get this boy off of your chest.
Scrub your self in the shower.
One day, you'll realize that this no longer hurts you anymore.
You've  done it before.
And you can do it again.

Ten gassed men. Ten gassed men.
They follow blind in single file.
One turns to spew and break the chain
of shouldered hands and splintered minds.

Ten blind men. Ten blind men.
Each marked for sacrifice,
bandaged eyes and mustard faced,
lungs in foamed embrace.

Ten maked men. Ten marked men.
their eyes see what we can't
in Singer Seargeant's paint,
sights rehearsed and cursed.

Way to the lane
Sam stood under a tree
waiting for Jane
says to himself, "I love thee."

Sunshine furnished the day
it was half past eleven
Sam frenzied and gay
for he will get to tryst Jane.

Past the lane was a park
where lovers hummed songs of love
along with the tune of larks
beneath the heaven above.

Sam walked to and fro
eyeing on the lovers kiss
dreamt of kissing Jane's eyebrow
something he never wanted to miss.

Minutes passed into hours
and Sam worried presently
for Jane's arrival undiscovered
he calls her hurriedly.

Jane's mobile rings aloud
awaiting Sam for the response
some questions maked Sam doubt
he stormed towards her home at once.

On the way his phone rings
immediately picking it up
he says, "Jane!!", curiously
the voice of an unknown cop.

Asking, "Is this Mr. Sam?"
"Yes, it's Sam," he replies
Cop says, "I found your number with this Ma'am,
Middle of the road she died."

Sam stunned and shocked
with a shaky voice he asks, "Where are you calling from?"
Cop replied, "Before highway, near shop Reebok"
and Sam destined for the zone.

Reaching there he finds her carcass
while returning with gifts
sweet Jane crashed with a bus
while she was running swift.

Shattered Sam stood still
his mind freezed and tears dried
woven dreams at once killed
dark clouds defeated light.

or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.

life?

it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.

it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.

are holding hands.
I think
they think they are
in love,
in the eye
of a glorious storm,
with aisles of x’s
in text messages,
a wink that suggests
anywhere but here
is better.

The babies of
this century,
maked-up more
than the generation before,
flecks of snow
in a blizzard
of pimples and kisses,
condoms and phones.
There is no jealousy,
just a shift in the times,
a jolt in the system
of snotty noses and whispers.

They look happy, at least.
Love, or something like it,
a blossom in their lungs.
Now, I wonder,
walking,
if they know what comes.

Gypsy faith swirled with wild lebonise tongues touch so close I can make fresh salt water swing into my palms and make orange sunsets fall apart melting and glazing and get close to what I should  have rubbed with my hands I don't know why I never only reached out from where I stood.  I'm close to every person belonging to me.  Not the bitter words slavery I am finally made and maked half the rainy dry baron saharras I distracted with horizon false bare assed view of giant ledggs outside bay glass window widdowers.  Don't count clean eye glasses.  Spect ovals smeared fingers like skyscrapers below unseen explosions of arts fartsy.  Come on expect bird **** people.  A clear window.  A bird cage cubicle.  As Baching  went pecking corn and keyboard.  Don't be a fat fake chicken.  Be a glossy fox.  Be marvelous.

I'm standing in the mirror
I see images of me behind myself
Maybe cuz there's nothing left
But I'm rolling with the punches
Life full of **** so get prepare for the lunches
Eating up troubles every time it steps to me
Gtta keep them tools on me
Never know when ya gotta
Put the nail in the coffin too often
******* wanna try me
Death to the sheriff's and the deputy
Trying ruin my reputation G
Got brothers servin twenty five to l
N ain't never seen bail
We gotta wake up before it's too late
We get maked up
With rogue and tuxedo
I roll torpedos n just let my mind flows
Enemies I see I'm in a glare they can stare
But won't go there
Cuz they know I'm not ya average muthaphukka
Sugar honey ice tea
I see the po pos hitting me
With subpoena but I pull out my *****
Tell em to **** it or else get ****** *****
I can't help it I was made from the war
Still sitting in the eye of the storm swarm
Adversaries like bees making honey **** the money no jokes cuz ain't nothing funny
So I'm coming to a hood near you
All ya gotta do Is make a phone call
Big Yosef gone tear down these muthaphukkin painful Brick Walls

Obstacles coming stop signs
be aware....
envy and hate...
am on my way....
underground movin..
like a miner...
i dig for what is Precious
doors shut
they won't let us in...
self made...
they didn't make us....

Life i live...
its like a dream...
tired of breathing...
siblings fighting...
spirits colliding....another
dimension damaging...
at a miner age...
i saw the life of the person i love...
end...love inside of me died..
when people i care about left...
leave me empty...
i was alone.....
at home...

Life i live...
at age of 16...
i had suicidal thoughts....
depressed....praying...for...me to stop
breathing....a purpose of living...i searched...
surface i scratched...
nothing or something maked sense...
emotions...tense...
future....i live the past tense....
i see... i never talked about it again...
pain and anger built...
i wonder when it will
collapse...pieces...
so small can be a danger.....

Life i live...
friends...enemies...trust cost...
finacial ain't stable....
love is a drug...
damaged me alot...
i used every penny i had...
to have it...
but it never help....
am hooked...
re-hab....therapy sessions...
got me locked...
**** i have issues....
**** smells i cover it with tissues...
i see my wrongs...
i can't right them...
time waits no man...
ohh man...
i wish you knew this is a poetry...
through story telling....
reality...sticks to me
like gravity...
feet on surface...  

LIFE I LIVE

i slaked a thirst
i maked a first
i naked a burst
know what i mean
there is a tonic
for what i have
there is
for what you have
it's 8 dollars
for the
thought of it
nor the naught
of it
i'll


if you hadn't
knives
i'm here to help

find you're
your
missing
knives

cut you
i'll


do something
with something
sharpened

tho I'm dull
as a gust

scales fly off
dull in the gust

no longer
that

cold
ness

shrink away now
this arrow
never knows