Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste

born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes

blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction

the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****

but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you




.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
        Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
        Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
    This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door:—
      Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
  fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
      Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—
    ’Tis the wind and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no
  craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
      Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
      With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
      Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
    Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
  door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my *****’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
      She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath
  sent thee
Respite—respite aad nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
      Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
    Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
      Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
  upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
    Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Feeling the box I work in closing in on me during winter’s last gasp,
She has dug in her heals refusing to yield to warmth.
Unmerciful and unrepentant in her bitterness,
she taunts and tortures us all.

Yet, spring birds sing of spring as a lover sings of her man.
The sun struggles to break through the dark grey,
melting away the dim cold
and drabness that surrounds all.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
  
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
  
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more.”
  
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
  
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” –
Merely this, and nothing more.
  
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more.”
  
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
  
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
  
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
  
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –  
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
  
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never – nevermore’.”
  
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
  
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my *****’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
  
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
  
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
  
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
  
“Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting –
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
  
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
  Though nurtur’d ’mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
  Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
  In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
  Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
  Will whisper, “Our meeting we yet may renew:”
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
  Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
  Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
  Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
  Down a cheek which outrivals thy ***** in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
  Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
  From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
  The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
  Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
  He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
  His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
  And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
  No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
  The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
  Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
  The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
  Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
  His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

I was unmerciful.
I remember killing innocence.
I heard screaming and yelling.
I saw dust and blood spreading endlessly.
I worried that this would be my fate.
I thought that I would be taken over forever.
But, I want to change.
I am sweet and kind.
I think everyone deserves MERCY.
I need to free everyone.
I try to SAVE everyone.
I feel determined.
I forgive Chara.
Now I can change.
I will be brave.
I choose to be merciful.
I dream to free monster kind.
I hope everyone will get along on the surface.
I predict I will be an ambassador.
I know it will end perfectly.
I will change.

The sky is so blue, yet so very sorrowful,
Here in my prison, these thoughts just won't fade,
Exiled from a holy world into a lonesome, somber lunacy,
This painful day, the dream of a better, hopeful tomorrow,
Are truly the light of my fading consciousness in this hell,
So I went to count the days till judgement deems me pure again, until I may become whole once more from these broken shards of the past,
Budding sprouts begin to bloom quietly, as the timeless seasons rush by and vanish into the bittersweet remembrance of ones memories,
"Stay, even if you're weak, dear conscious" I wispered to myself as then my tired eyes got distracted for a brief moment,
Time already had come to an inevitable halt, so at least my pocketwatch told me after letting out one last, delicate ticking sound,
With that, the phantoms of my past had laid down to rest, as the coming dawn greeted me by displaying the fading stars of the sky,
This is truly a repeated tale I endure in this pitiful isolation,
But if my painful past were to be erased, the last brilliance of my life would be deemed lost, for the darkest moments truly are a gift from above, helping us to determine moments of joy, bliss and purest love,
So I hope that one day, this body of mine will swift into prayers, hopefully in the beauty of an unclouded light, filled with moonlight,
Maybe then, I can finally move on, leave this lunacy far behind me,
Deep inside these puzzled eyes give me courage,
Despite being sealed away I shall discard everything and challenge this unmerciful fate of mine,
Then I can reach that sky, where my ideals are displayed,
Surely freedom awaits the border of consciousness, at least I hope,
Love blooms on the waters surface, filled with countless tears
And with this newfound freedom I can withdraw myself in this wonderful, pure holy world I waited for so long!
Despite it being distant a fantasy,
I dream of a hopeful tomorrow,
Here, in my exile.

~ Umi

Those profiteers in natural goods give and achieve little and it is truly the truth about anyone
Who in this time and circumstance makes gain the venerable sign of success truly the worst
Bargain has been struck but do This please stop and look on the indispensable the flawless
Many are the shapes and sizes but True sight only occurs when you look upon the soul of your
Friends the outer man perishes but That which was conceived in glory only enriches with time
Behold the portal that is immortal Put to stirring the essential distil the foremost telling wonder
The great tuning will occur from the knowledge of urgency and expediency consider the fragile
The text of life reveals the Brevity it brings appreciation man faces and evaporates state
Such unique qualities Irreplaceable face in these lines you crisscrossed and with all heart and
Mind a bond Formed illuminating wise far reaching invaluable because there is only one
That is irreplaceable they provide a window that is priceless to your life in particular you can
Span the globe but none can capture your imagination or harness the unseen dynamo that your
Life creates in them and in them alone you are made whole a curtain this thin veil opens onto
Landscapes and into a peaceful space the protected the honored spectrum that houses human
Endeavor this Selection was made from divine wisdom it is your element to fulfillment don’t
Scoff or walk There carelessly one path exists alone that leads and holds immortal virtue to
Crown your life other paths hold only waste and destruction there truly is the sweet mixture
Promise hides the unmerciful death and the bones of so many that unwisely took of its
Pleasure and joined the untold multitude whose dead and whiten bones tell the horror in
Detail how often the Perfect scene belies danger and death but a friend’s hand touches your
Shoulder come this way Leading you out of danger this is the timeless hand that is vouched and
Is blameless it bends all Inappropriate and harmful abrogated nonsense back on its self to shift
And appropriate the Meaningful the heartfelt the all commanding power you have at your
Disposal if ever you were given opportunity it stands in the highest request honesty true blue
Affirmation the sounding Board that never falters or fails those who love you this is the most
Wondrous repository everything worldly will change fortunes expectations to trust and lock
Your hopes in things is Folly sadly the days will come that they will only be accessible through
Photographs and Memories but they will never diminish they are and will always be your
Fortress and no one can find a better place to keep his richest treasure than in the everlasting
Souls of friends

Women are crying blood instead of tears
children are hunted like lions hunt deers
they don't even get a chance to plan for their careers
isn't that a big burden for them to bear ?!

Apparently , these aren't our interests to think about ..
Oh come on guys ! There still lots of movies and football matches to watch out !
Really , isn't he your brother who screamed loud ?
Asking; where are u brother ? I'm freaking out
He could hardly beleive you're leaving him to die out !

For how long will we pretend being deaf and blind ?
Are u waiting to hear the news notifying u the death of ur close friend ?
have u ever tried to think about the tough time he spent ?
and what did he do to have such an unmerciful end  ?
Now raise your hands and ask Allah to have their nation mended ..
This at least will releive their problems and save them from that tormentful current

I.
My parents don't drink.
They have their masters.
They both have jobs so that I don't have to.
They raised me the Christian way.
We eat as a family every night.
We live in a neighborhood where violence is ostracized.
To my friends, my house is the place for comfort.
They tell me not to take it for granted
just because I'm used to it.

So I took a walk through my house,
making sure not to take my life for granted.

Through the kitchen,
I remember the unrelenting fist curled around my wrist,
the ice blue eyes that I used to see as gray,
the tight lips and the seething words.
I shake my hand as I remember the bloodlessness,
the purple swelling as eyes welled with tears,
the way I raced out only to find that I could not open the door to escape,
with one hand broken and the other unable to curl around the ****.

Down the hallway,
I reach up to massage my neck,
for the memory of choked tears
never leaves;
the sudden unforgiving fist
the strength with which a five-year-old could not compete.
My body swings from the neck down,
and the fist released as the arm powered me onto the floor of my room.

II.
I catch my foot on the dining room chair I used to hold in front of myself,
growing up a fighter.
When I learned to defend myself with the strength of age and experience,
the strangling fist became biting words.
When I gave up the religion under which I was raised,
I was told that I must not love that fist or those words,
that I took my life for granted.
I was told that I was the key to our family's unity.
I was told to grow up.

I don't drink.
I get good grades.
I find money for college so they don't have to.
I believe in loving everyone like Jesus did.
I make dinner when they don't have time.
I never bring home fighting friends.
To my friends, I make my parents proud.
They ask me how we have such a good relationship,
they ooh and aah at our affection.

But you don't love me.
I am your failure.
I am your tax break.
I grew up a fighter,
and you gave up.

III.
I used to fight for you,
but they say indifference is worse than anger for a reason.

My mother used to wonder,
where did these bruises come from?
I always shrugged,
telling myself,
I'll deal with this alone.

I'll get a reaction somewhere else.
And that fist, those words,
became teenage promiscuity.
The sweet, unmerciful clutch,
the never ending cycle of discontent,
miscommunication and misunderstanding
and the familiar feeling of not being able to escape.

And every time,
as feelings of decreased personal value were overwhelmed by temporary pleasure,
I sunk deeper into that comfort.

You don't love me.
And I don't want you to.

Sweat drenched bodies tangled snake
like, lips entwined like pair of swans.
One palm grasping the waist
Other holding the mound on chest
Like some ruthless dictator holding humanity.
Traverse on my body’s conduits, beloved!
Regale, relish, feast in its twists and turns,
And with your lips map the boundary
of your kingdom lying conquered in your bed.

With your mighty sword ravage
The territory of yours so long sealed,
Enter in it and let the din and moans to
not melt your heart. Be relentless
and unmerciful—press, pinch, bite,
Spike, goad, tease— make me beg then
Hurl like hurricane swirling in longing
and hunger, subdue only after taking me.

A night in your arms I want, beloved!
Gratify the five senses, bless me the bliss
of life this night. And with your
Measuring tape measure me inch by inch
Touch me those little places I haven’t
touched before, kiss me recklessly
And when you think its time enough
Then rain the seed of your love like farmer
Over my fecund body of field,
So that in time a flower of this
Night spring and wave and smile
in gentle breeze.

Only, a night in your arms I want, beloved!
A night in your arms is all I want!

Eye in the sky is my mood
And I slip lazing into blue,
The darkest true of your
Eyes, who cast me away,
So unmerciful, in the tides,
Sometimes the moon locks,
Is master of mine and aye,
Of she am I made.  

Tonight, as you held me,
So white was my spirit,
Luminous as Lazarus' grave,
As the holey silence, some
Wraith of looks in the sky,
Sometimes the moon shows,
Wears my face and I hers,
Of she am I made?

The night is brisk and raw,
So heated am I next to you,
Ghostly sad and beaming
With joy at the indigo sheet
Of floating stars on the sea,
You hold my heart like faith,
Nebulous as moon in ocean,
Of these I am made.

I was obsequious towards you.... opening up to you, I was an impressively sedulous suitor,

Didn't I constantly show my love; like a doting concubine,

yet never was I supposed to.

Did things I'd never wish to again do, You were always lethargic returning any affections.

You're  constantly an exorbitantly  cruel lover, on too many occasions you've left me; feeling, clinging, wishing & praying that your bitter tortures -  would end.

Morbidly I'd crave you like a killer craves the death of his victim's.

Oh there's no end, no relapse or realse, my tormentor, my seemingly drug of choice--is you!

I  sincerely felt a cordial love & dislike for how you've had me susceptible to this elegiac experience.

Unmerciful you cast away my heart and dealt my soul a mighty blow.

NEVER again  would I be your willing victim,  you're  antipathies & archaic behavior  leaves me wishing for a way out, since you've made me seem more like the enemy.

This love's a beautiful beast & so oblivious to my demise...

I'm still obligated....

I've vowed to stay, fight comes what may...

  yet & still You make it clear I'm disqualified before a race could ever be won.....

Why?

My questions unanswered
as if I've never vocalized a retort!

IVE COME TO REALIZE THERE'S NO HOPE FOR ME

☆♡

Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
         K.A.C.L.N ©
     All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present

The best truths are told with fingers tied
behind the backs of the greatest liars,
and for every time I've heard something too good to be true,
I remember this.

I remember fists,
clenched tight while wishing my body
would disappear in high school hallways.
While I fought against myself halfway out the door to homeroom.

I was “that kid.”
The one who sat with a half eaten lunch
where prying eyes couldn't touch
for fear of people watching me take a bite of what sustains life.

I wanted to be the emptiness that creates a star;
the friction of aimless atoms collapsing into one another to fabricate something beautiful.
People are unmerciful, because I’m still waiting for gravity to do the trick.

I’m still waiting to be worth more than a second pick.
I’m waiting for these shaking hands to stop and hold their fingers steady.

The thing about a star, I learned,
is that when we are staring at Orion’s Belt,
we are looking approximately 1340 years into the past.

I can only hope that my body can last
until I can see my own light.  
I’ll keep trying to force my spine
to sit in line with the rest of me;
keep trying like a lightening bug to create my own stars.

Empowered by uncontrollable self destructive tendencies,
But not as you know.
I am,
They are,
It is,
Unpredictable, unassuming, unmerciful.
The cure is damaging as is the attempted removal of life,
Still I embrace.
Just that.

Mighty the muscle of unmerciful momentum
Taking names, keeping pace, rhythmic with the arms of father time
Back to rehash an ancient scribe just moments away
You can taste it
The blood of the forsaken
Dying a thousands deaths
Ravished by the beast
Whilst storms blow in from the east
With messages of pale horses and unrelenting fate
Demanding blood to cleanse the land and to burn the stakes
Fear tantalizes
Exhilarates
All the kings men take their place
and prepare to battle the cycles history incessantly recreates

HEARTBEAT OF DELTA STATE
The rain has fallen again,
The streets are isolated,
Everyone is filled with sadness.
Houses and shops have been abandoned,
Villages and towns have been inundated.
Bags and cargoes floats unsteadily,
Cars and buses are deeply buried
deep into the water in a hazy manner.
People, animals, all are transported
by little wooden vessels.
With no idea of when
to take over their properties,
With no idea of where else to go.
The cities, their streets,
houses and cars have being flooded,
Properties, expensive
and extra expensive have been left over.
East Delta had been covered
by the unmerciful ocean.
Precious lives were gone
and more were at stake.
Families and close friends- divided.
Farms with large crops- destroyed.
Hunger and thirsty, hugs my people with sadness,
begging for aid.
Sickness and diseases fill people
with sympathizing outcome.
A land of peace is now a land of disaster,
A land of Labor is now a land of turmoil.
May peace always reign,
May ignorance be neglected,
For the dying heartbeat of Delta.

Industry hides under a cunning guise
in which we are blinded
gorgonized
They certainly aren't for you and yours
priorities are set on higher scores
Lost we are
in the wake of corporate greed
in which bottom feeders
fufill and satisfy the belly of this beast
Which pumps out plastics,toxins,and pollutants
in return for our dollar
Killing mother's purity
obscene individual study proves to be
and we overindulge for their prosperity
What a shame,a disgrace,a great pity
that we sell out to this unmerciful machine
I say we let mother be
just let her be
Dont let it be

With memories rapidly fleeting, I find it hard to pinpoint what lead me into the eyes of the dying man. I recall a day just the same as many in following, the cold breeze felt nice on my skin and a brisk sensation overwhelmed me. I felt the air filling my lungs and I'd like to think I appreciated it fully.

As temptation fled me, I felt calm. No longer a slave to a cigarette pressed between my lips, I felt pitiful in my nostalgia and felt wrong inside of myself. Oh how must I have felt? I can't even grasp my mind in that of which is my younger eyes. I feel wise honestly, almost as much so as the oak tree that keeps reoccurring in my thoughts.

It's been almost a hundred years in my mind but time does not flatter such unconventional wisdom. I lay alone, as alone as one can ever feel. Who would have thought my death bed would be that of an asphalt street lay? The cold air that I allowed to fill my lungs just prior in the day, now has forsaken me so. I feel the air I breathe tearing softly into my lungs, I feel the cold embrace of death.

I thought my time would never come, but I guess I was wrong.
In recollection, I always thought I would die on a day where clouds filled the sky. That somehow with my departure came down rain so hard, so powerful and filled with fury. As if the pounding roar of thunder is that of only God cursing himself for allowing me to slip through the cracks of existence. I guess I'm not all that important after all, stained in the blood of youth. My dying hour is here far too soon. but I was never good at keeping time myself, so this can not be sure.

Dying such a strange thought, there's an art in dying really, I now see this to be true.
Death: a concept in which the mind can't comprehend, we often like to not to think of such terrible things, really the point in it seems all too pointless.

The thought crosses the measure of relevance in what deems to be relevant. Just the day prior I laid in my bed filled with appreciation for all that is mine and all I had worked for, to be laying lost in my sheets... I would give anything to feel said sheets once again. Little did I know.

Don't men only die when they don't appreciate life? Why must I be shown all that I am losing, when I already increasingly know to the deepest foundation of that of which is my existence, that I have already lost?

...

With my overwhelming sense of self-importance on the line, I face mortality in it's true form, how fragile I really am I now see. In a world separate from the pain I feel, I am fleeting out of existence trying to forget. I searched for calm in a hopeless place. sorrow moans, bitter, desolated, with a ruthless sensation of despair filling my existence. Oh the despair, it is a pit with immense depth. I would like to tell you how I have explored such depth but I honestly rather not...

For I am the one who can take it, all of it I swear, throw the knife in my back and I will pull it out, clean and polish the blade and return it as I apologize for ever getting in your way. I really never meant to get in your way. This depth I do not wish to explore will reflect in this piece I am presenting, between the lines, the presence is so clear in between the lines, screaming out to be heard, I can barely contain it within myself, so therefor it bleeds out from in between the lines. My suffering, my agony, every face I was forced to find peace with in my fleeting moments! I could not find said peace. It was nowhere to be found.

The darkness fills me and the plagues of my dreams and ambitions brought vengeance upon my waking and quaking mind. Suddenly an empty figure stands in my reality brought nightmare and I observe it and ask why something so dark lives in the depths of my subconscious? I am tortured and beaten and broken, I have taken the world and more, why me? I ask for my own amusement.

I often ask myself what lead me to that of merciful that day, the day time stopped and I reached a new plane of existence, what lead me to be so merciful? The question rings and I stand firm in my footing, as my head turned so swiftly, I locked eyes with God, he took the shape of a moving vehicle. Terminal and homicidal, I measured the weight of guilt and worth and felt bitter in my disdain.

My disdain did not know the smiles of my family's faces, my sister with eyes not yet recording, she would not even know who I truly was, the question sank and I asked "Who am I?" but I could not remember, the dying man had consumed me, everything I am was being ripped apart by the dying man, I felt engulfed in these feelings...

And in my departure I felt so very alive, more alive then I had ever felt. My heart was crying in it's inadequacy, never knowing the touch of true love, I fell short yet again! I have failed... For all their is worth dying for, I had so much more worth living for.  God and his oh so strange faces, he chose to represent himself as my bane of existence this time.

I thought about it but I never no matter the time given could have really considered everything before I pushed that man out of the way, fully and truly I could have never known the weight of my actions. Some see me as a hero for pushing him out of the way, but I see a deep sadness inside myself in the decisions I had made in that of a split second. Almost as if I chose my demise simply to let go, I wanted to let go deep down, and what better way to let go then in an acts of hopeless heroism. I felt pure, almost as if I was absolved of all my prior sin. I thought of God and his true face, the emptiness in the absence of light in his eyes, I felt alone, no comfort, as alone as I felt the day I was born....

And as I embark, so must I someday depart.. I imagined my departure to be a day of overcast and shade, but on the contrary it was a bright day. I felt the Arizona heat masked by a winter breeze and I felt alive, in that of which is my fleeting moments I felt alive. In my suffering, my great suffering! Given the choice to let go, I saw the sky open up, and their was angels standing on the street lights ready to guide my soul in it's leaving.. but I was not yet ready! as I lived this pain, I slowly forgot what it felt to be free of suffering, I became my pain and the only sounds I heard were that of sorrows moans. I felt filthy and impure, moments earlier I saw myself as selfless in acts of heroism but to no prevail were my acts recognized, I somewhat expected the scenery drop to be lifted and to find myself in a dream I simply fell too hard into. But no, no, no, NO! reality is unmerciful and cruel and potent and sure, it is sure as day is bright and night is dim!

I often refer to who I was as characters who shifted in time to become new. I dream to be The Wise Man but I am only The Discoverer as of now, but before that I was The Dying Man(who I am allowing you to know) and before that I was The Ego and Fury and before I was The Hopelessly Hopeless, when funeral progressions play I was The Boy who Throws Dirt, just as I was once The Young and Yearning, and same as I was once The Sunflower Boy who ran amongst the flower fields. These characters are all equally apart of myself, as who I am today is apart of me.

Really we are all one in the eyes of the dying man, you become everything you ever were or will be, the dying man is clairvoyant but hopelessly disconnected and could never really make any sense of it. And by the one in million chance, if he ever were to flood back in to the eyes of the living, it would be like a dream that fades as you desperately cling to the story as the day progresses. I don't know why I fail to forget the eyes of the dying man, I wish I could, it isn't natural, a spoiler if you will, but the eyes of the dying man holds great wisdoms and sorrows, far too great for the eyes of the living man. So you can imagine my return, my great bamboozle of death itself, it was surreal and I questioned the fabric of existence in it's entirety. Where I thought I was surely pushing daisies, rose a pulse and life breathed into me yet again.

See this is not my first run in with the reapers scythe, it is my third but I do admit, I was far more conscious the third time around. My first encounter was my very first breath, my lungs failed me with the tight restraint of the umbilical cord fastened in a noose fashion around my neck three times. I was born blue and it leads me to ask myself how could I ever feel alive after something like that? It's like waking up to falling out of your bed and the day is casted in negative light but so is my life. The second encounter was in the eyes of my former self, I like to call the hopelessly hopeless. My first conscious run in with the reapers untimely swings, I felt disdain, and impurity becoming of me. my head clenched with strain as everything I had ever witnessed or heard. I was forsaking myself as I cried out to forget what was playing before my eyes in two manners, one the life how I desired it to be and the other playing the cold setting of what actually happened...

So I am here the dying man yet again, not because I asked to be but because it simply can be. For I can take the weight of the world and arguably more. I stand a man sovereign in my rights for existence, valiant if not simply in no better words a brave man beaten and broken, always ready for the next lashing. I decide to fight the becoming of the dying man. Will to live! it's really a funny thing, something of such great importance, that no one really ever thinks about, something so overlooked but still so important.

I lay the man aged a hundred years inside his head, moments reflected hours and hours were becoming years, I slowly forgot who I was, and the slate became cleansed. I felt pure with triumph, I felt undyingly pure, my sins were washed from me and I awoke. I felt brand new, I felt as if I were reborn, the dying man was casted into the past and I became the discoverer I am today, and one day I dream of being the wise man but one day is too far to become hung up on anything. I shall appreciate another year in full this time, and for many years following. I am now, what I was not before. I am truly awake and appreciative for if death comes for a fourth blow I want to have new stories to tell my old friend, as the fireworks in my brain go off yet again.

Once upon a midnight clear, while I sat there, drinking beer,
Reading a quaint and curious volume of fictitious lore,
While I stupored, nearly napping, suddenly I heard a trap beat,
Along with such horrible rapping, rapping outside my bedroom door.
“‘Tis a rapper,” I muttered, “rapping outside my bedroom door –
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember cooking stew in late November,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – that igloo stew filled me with sorrow
From a book I sought to borrow – reprieve from indigestion –
From the rare and radiant pains of self-inflicted indigestion –
My irritation was beyond question.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Annoyed me – deployed in me anger never felt before;
So that now, for the sake of my blood pressure, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis the pizza delivery man entreating entrance at my bedroom door –
Some pizza delivery man entreating entrance at my bedroom door; –
Bringing pies from the pizza store.”

Presently my soul grew stronger;
Hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is that I cannot tip,
Because of my relationship,
And so this house you may surely skip,
And thus pray stop the tapping,
Tapping on my bedroom door,
And leave me to my beer” –
Here I opened wide the door; –
Crickets there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, steaming,
Doubting, fuming as no mortal has ever feigned to fume before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were curses I won’t restore.
These I grumbled to the void and the echoes did restore.
Merely these, and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somehow more annoying than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely there is someone at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, who thereat is and this mystery uncover –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery uncover; –
So I may rest and pray recover”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and stutter,
In there stomped a baby hippopotamus of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, climbed above my chamber door –
Climbed upon the trophy case just above my bedroom door –
Climbed, and sent my favorite trophy tumbling to the floor.

Then, this baby hippo beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said,
“Art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient hippo stomping around on the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Hippo, “Dumbledore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly hippo
To hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning –
Little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing a hippo above his bedroom door –
Hippo or beast upon the trophy case above his bedroom door,
With such a name as “Dumbledore.”
But the hippo, sitting lonely on the placid case, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a single syllable stuttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have come before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my sanity has done before.”
Then the hippo said, “Dumbledore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some bearded headmaster whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Dumble – Dumbledore.’”

But the Hippo still beguiling all my fancy to smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of hippo, case, and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous hippo of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt
And ominous hippo of yore
Meant in croaking “Dumbledore.”

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the hippo whose fiery eyes now burned into my *****’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser,
Perfumed from an unseen censer
The television showed my favorite team
Now losing as I glimpsed the score.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee –
By these angels he hath sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy
Memories of this score!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and
Forget this evil score!”
Quoth the Hippo, “Dumbledore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! –
Prophet still, if hippo or devil! –
Whether Tempter sent, or whether
Tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert
Land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me
Truly, I implore –
Is there – is there pizza in Heaven? – tell
Me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Hippo, “Dumbledore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil – prophet
Still, if hippo or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by
That God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within
The distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted pizza whom the
Angels did procure –
Clasp a rare and radiant pizza whom the
Angels did procure.”
Quoth the Hippo, “Dumbledore.”

“Be that word our sign in parting, hippo or
Fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting –
“Get thee back into the tempest and the
Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no mark of dirt as a token of that lie thy
Soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the case
Above my door!
Take thy jaws from out my heart, and take thy
Form from off my door!”
Quoth the Hippo, “Dumbledore.”

And the Hippo, never flitting, still is sitting,
Still is sitting
On the broken case of trophies just above my
Chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s
That is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws
His shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies
Floating on the floor
May only be lifted by Dumbledore!

Laying prone next to death which may or may not be my neighbor; knowing that nothing I remember will save me; knowledge, useless knowledge, a required accompaniment to my carefully selected claret smiling with assurance as I infringe upon their right to object to the depths of my retort.

A wrinkled sheet ignored but useful in its random spread across my torso draws the sweat from my pores as I save the planet from my presence while the restlessness of unmerciful insomnia instills a quiet uselessness to my thoughts which I egocentrically assume will yield prose worthy of public display.

As the knowing is swallowed whole, as the last hardened cheese ******* on a plate, it becomes relevant to believe in anything unproven as further observed phenomena is no more or less a sequel to a play yet to be understood by genius or idiocy whose consciousness rival one another in their need to be loved by a suffering mother.

The bullet crosses the boundary between dream and threat into an assumed position of relevance in every step I take towards a repetitive life filtered only by the need for a decision; unhappy with or without; each the same yet held aloft by the delusion of a chance encounter with a heart I will use but never protect.

I have been too long from love
which is warm sand 'tween
my toes, the sun, and the shore
'gainst the infinite murmur
is slender, full, and thick with
people and people and people

skins many some golden others
pale as snow, but not that let's
recall your short dark and olive

           (hair;body)

teeth imperfect perfect and above
splayed the wide umber of thy nose
and above pierced twin pools of jade
(

           and below)

lean firm
distilled youth easy
******* effortless
stomach soft marvelous

(now from sand up)

feet pleasing colours
toes chips
calves diamonds
on bones
thighs unmerciful
and inward folding
hungrily 'tween they

a small stubble

and

heaven

His skin
is dry and faded
like the bark of naked trees gathered.

His eyes
are dark, stormy, grey,
like the sky of a snowy day.

His muscles
are lean and strong
like the harsh winds that blow cold and long.

His lips
chapped and pale
like foot steps in the snow that go out to get the mail.

His personality
is bitter and unmerciful
like the emptiness of the lull.

He is Winter.
Long and lingering.
His favorite.

Where fear lives
Hope struggles
To survive
Where anger exists
Dignity fights
To remain alive
Silent worry
Met by prayer
As mortality looms
We smell
Burning denial
And death’s pungent fumes
And now
The seeker
Will roam
Walking the halls
Of God’s message
When will he be called home?
The door
Of pain
And agony
Opens
It is time
For your testimony
Of who you were
And how you waited
Living with tomorrow’s promise
Which suddenly
Is upon you
The doubting Thomas
Do you stand
In your confusion?
Or do you kneel?
Helpless and alone
With your ego’s sword
Now melted steel
Who will make you strong
As uncertainty reigns
And drops its unmerciful curtain?
Who will win?
And who will lose?
Once assured now uncertain
You witness
Laughter and joy
As a prayer is met
With clemency
And grace
As God did not forget
Will you utter an aging promise
With tears from closed eyes?
Giving another false pledge?
Delivered only upon
Your need for God
As you crawl along the edge
Of the end
Of life
Or is it a new beginning?
What will you learn?
How will you live?
Will it be about giving?
You walked into the chamber
And judged yourself
With God’s own revelation
The picture
One of failure
And embraced temptation
When you return
And plead for your life
Or that of another
Will you remember this day
And how you begged
To be mercy’s lover?

If only she accepted me as her friend,
I would accompany her to destination.
She wouldnt have search for shade to bend.
Love will be our protection.

Behold how she shivers like feverish monster.
The unmerciful rain made her a wet fowl.
She said that rain is the administer
of
ugly,sorrow,sickness,cold and foul.

Oh no! if Goliath seem toughest,
call on David,if rain
is the administer cold
call on love,the supernatural best.
The most costly free gold.

If me and her in the rain walk,
the rain will only flog the dead horse.
Our teasing jokes and sweet talk,
will be our umbrella,no sorrow
nor the worse.

For those who, whenever they chase pavements,
stare at the adjacent road that mimics the starless night sky
And inside their heads they pretend
that they unknowingly trip on a crack on the cement,
so that they could find an excuse to use the incoming vehicle as an escape goat for life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

To the men high upon beams and chains and towers, overlooking the city skyline
filled with people tracing the sidewalks like ants in a single file,
who think to themselves: the fall will probably hurt less than the onslaught of words
coming from their wives for giving them a hard life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

I lift the crystal in my hand to the women who, no matter how battered and tattered are their skins,
choose to paint their faces with whatever powdered pallet they have
even though Rowling's metal wand sits beside their makeup inside the drawer of their dresser,
waiting for them to take their own life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

And to the students who have never gotten over their childhood traumas
and to the bullies who never outgrew the bruises from their fathers
that no matter how much it hurt you,
you never chose to end everything with a slipknot or the edge of a blade or with battery fluid you found in your garage,
I envy you

So, let's raise a glass to you too for not doing so!

I raise my half empty glass to all those who failed to take away god's gift
To the men and women who failed in fear of abandoning their children
I spill the contents of this wine glass
in honor of the sons and daughters of wealthy politicians, who succeeded in receiving eternal punishment for taking their lives
And to those who regret that they failed in their first try, please,
don't throw away your life

You are exquisite, you are tantalizing,
you are worthy of a million praises like the saints we see on mosaics and church pieces
Your works are rousing and they enflame the tiniest of sparks in at least one person's heart
be ravenous and unmerciful when improving your craft
Let's raise a glass!

Because as you are reading this, the glass of wine I have been carrying high above my head
had already spilled on the parchment where I have written these words with utmost care

So, will you raise your glass to me?

Eternal darkness unveils what goes unnoticed by light.
Waves predictably roll in to shore
Masked by the mystery of night.
They say lightning never strikes the same place twice
Well who said they were right.
Fields of dunes breed due to the oceans feed
And although nothing can be seen
Everything is in my blind sight.

Whether the weather burns or sleets upon the masses
Following the patterns, as they’ve done in the past
The world will go on, with death in red rain
But this worlds beauty helps heal the pain.

Washed ashore in a primal, unmerciful game of fate,
The joyous jellies of the sea inhabit a cruel domain.
What can pick and choose what thrives and what dies
And if He’s surprised by the question should I be afraid?
Cumulative answers spawn unanswered connections
Making what last was asked seem quaint.
Freedom blows in this bold breeze
Are the birds happier in the trees or the sea?