I asked my God
to set me free
she said she couldn’t
yet.

My fate and
destiny is greater
but I can’t accept.

Whats the cost of life?
Whats the price of death?
I’m in the market,
wheres the auction
I place my bets.

The sermons
growing darker
but its winter
so its fitting

and its daunting
but living
just causes pain.
Can’t find my way

Do I love life? Yes.
Do I hate death? No.
Its a ritual and cycle
and I play my role.

Suicide
been on my mind
since I was 15,
but I was too weak
The end is tempting.

This depression got me hostage
through a void I am falling
and I don’t care when I land
no no

If I lose life tomorrow
don’t count me in your sorrow
just move on and let me be

Set me free
Set me free

Paradoxes I’m living
I think need some religion
or stupid guidance
fore suicide pays me a visit

Here am I love
discovering that distance
caught attention of lust
and if our moment infinite
only her eyes I trust.

She was meant for me.
Desire exponentially
grows into a sunflower
where beauty meets its destiny.
Eden in her garden
Aphrodite laying next to me
can’t ignore the Goddess
now ingrained into my memory.

Am I obsessive?
Or were we meant to meet
and become each others possessions.

I need her kiss to now remove the doubt
She needs my lips to end her draught
together lose our sanity
and love each other right amounts.

Overdue this love has been
despite my patience growing thin
I crave for touch of hers on skin
the one who taught me how to love again.


www.soundcloud.com/zedler/sets/bwa

Do not treat education as business.
They’re making millions off children
who reside in subsidized housing.

They're making millions off children
who ask mother "what's for dinner?"
even though it's 10:00 pm
and the lack of food in their stomach
has given them a hint as to what the answer is.

They’re making millions off children
who’ll end up dead or in jail before they’re 18.
If you don’t care or if you’re okay with that,
then just keep quiet.

Keep your opinions to yourself.
We’re all entitled to our own.
Quite frankly, I am not offended.
All I ask is that you don’t tell me
it's wrong to want change.

The education system in this country
is bound to fail many, but that does not mean
that I have to as well.
Do not tell me I can't cause change.

Started off in the [clouds]
and after falling and crashing down,
touched the roots of a redwood.

Now with the help of giraffes
I scale it's back as I'm looking
to climb my way up the trunk.

Branch after branch,
contact causing
****, hoping no one
stops my conquest
and burns this tree to ash.

Talking to fauna,
birds chirp, to attempt
continuing this saga,
after she left I reduced to
nothing but a larva, as I now
undergo the metamorphosis,
similar to that of Kafka's.

Trauma induces this  
determination, of being reunited
in clouds with her creation,
and if up there nothing for me
is waiting, then abort mission,
swing towards a new notion,
and from the the clouds
I'm perched upon, jump
and plummet into the [ocean].

25 hours pass before
the tip of the tree is reached
and as the sun rises, I realize
I'm above the horizon and
on clouds perched I instantly
recognize the eyes hidden
under eyelids.

Finally we've met again,
tragic ending as I reach for
her to grab my hand.
Unstably standing on this branch
and as she hands me hers, she
retreats and pulls back.

Slipping, she let me fall
and midair I hear my heart
crack, falling thousands of feet,
I'm thinking of the love she couldn't
keep, and before the impact a thought passes my head; so honest.
Humans like myself, too ambitious in their conquest,
meant to stay at trunk of trees, and clouds, strictly homes for a goddess.

Detain, and explain to the public,
why these rhymes seem so redundant.
[two] for the second letter of the alphabet, the woman
I haven't crashed out of love yet.

Bear with me if it seems amiss,
[five] for the encounter where I finally
placed a kiss on her lips.
Wishing I wasn't missing.

To review, ink contained in pages
of the book labeled as [two], there's
a poem written by the name of [sleep],
written after the events in the previous stanza,
which after, of reality I got a grip
and coincidentally this poem in her
direction written was also the fifth.  

As well as [two] being the book
published by my hand as number [five],
I slowly see the everlasting love starting
to die.

Aren't quite finished yet,
as none of it I regret.
To me my favorite and always the best,
struggling to write, as my heart pounds
and causes friction with my chest.

Met on the twentieth day of November,
contains a [two], but that might be a stretch,
as I find more reasons to love her while
smoking this cigarette.

If counting November as number one,
It took us [seven] months to become one;
addition of [two] and [five].

Letting a lot of details go by,
but if my math is correct,
that would mean that May was the
month we began a relationship.

May being the fifth month of the year
and I know this last fact about my baby seems crazy,
but having ripped this heart and
having it served on plate, I learned to
believe in fate, both embarked love and
sailing on a relationship, was none
other than May on the on the day of the
[twenty-fifth].

Controversy started over the images this device receives. Hormones control this impulse, she's making each ***** convulse, and I can tell I'm still in love by the palpitations of my pulse.

Thus, proving that her actions indicate the prequel to her return. Her affection distant but still yearn, expressing sentiments, guess I'll never learn, spoken without biting my tongue
and now it's your turn.

Conquer hearts and take over,
**** her off when I'm not sober,
**** her off when thoughts become somber, **** her off when I say I won't be here much longer, **** her off for many reasons, **** her off once during every season and **** her off the most when in myself I stop believing.

Her perfection an extension of accessible recollection, to the woman who despises the notion of wearing articles of clothing.

Not the best at displaying her emotions, so in combination the words she's chosen seem broken, unable to withhold the growth of sentiments cut at the root, and as they now reproduce, sunflowers inhabit her garden and all the revelations of truth.

Lapse of time passes, lasting longer
than activities that involved
me being on her.

Inappropriately timing events perfectly.
Summer seems to have visited me in the fall, her memories now more than ever I recall and wishing I wasn't missing the woman who had it all.

Concluding it's a blessing, for continuing to have your presence present, writing by only depending on your recollection, and since poetry is my obsession, make new memories with me as I practice the act of ceding back to a former possessor, definition of recession.