loving u
makes me
hate myself
a little less

THE LAST AMERICAN
CONFESSION TO OR TOO
OF FOOLS DUE THUS
ARE FRIENDS AS FEW
THE LAST AMERICAN
THE LORD TO OR TOO
WHAT GOOD A PAY
A TRUTH RIGHT TO
THEREFORE TOO AM
THE LAST AMERICAN
A CRY TO OR TOO AS
I CONFESS. I LOVE YOU.

What is love then?
Love is fate.
What is fate then?
Truth, whatever fated:
Time, and
What is time? What isnt?
"GOD, is a concept
By which we measure
Our pain. I'll say it again."
Jack lemon
(..youre a romantic fool)
Lendme kilmister

Joy you brough to my soul to
ask
how could i ever repay you
Say
From now on do but walk true
And
Not you not ever come to
Let
Your heart come to once more do
Ask
What would but pain cause to
Say
So now yours to what all would
And
None could like ever so few
Let
All my world you shall come to
Get.

Angel of the one lord sent done as said did
proud made me
along heavens with a sword
in his left
to destroy the lies of
wicked
as many was and cruel
and the men
that would such deeds did
cut in half
by truth
to his heart the one lord planted and a scroll
in his left
been given to write
the new
as to say as now did
but what he saw
with eyes
of his own in the morning
in the sky
to dawn of glory you
god
showed himself to
and was pleased
to let him
see and call him
his:
son.

sometimes i feel invisible
either like everyone looks through me
like i'm not there
or like they see my appearance
and don't look further

i am a person too
my identity matters
see me for me
see me in the room

i feel like an outcast
a social pariah
like i'm a wallflower

Each smile a map, each line a trail,
Etched softly on the skin's embrace.
A journey marked in fine detail,
The story written on your face.

The laugh that danced around the eyes
Still lingers in a softened fold,
A map of moments, lows and highs,
A quiet story, gently told.

Not every crease was born from pain,
Some stem from joy that overflowed.
Expressions that we can't restrain,
Emotions that our hearts bestowed.

So wear these lines with quiet pride,
They are the footprints of your days.
A testament to life applied,
A living poem on your face’s page.

THE LAST WORDS in the taste of love –
As I summon the sweetness to wash my palate
My skin can never find much rest in the day;
A makeshift bed; my body feels like a pallet.
Growing old, means having a mix of colours
Inside of my beard; making it a face palette.

But wouldn’t I love to own a palace –
To French kiss someone in Paris,
And to be loved by both her parents.

Find me a love that is apparent;
Stealing a lingering kiss, like stealing the time
But let’s not clock in the times you tick me off –
Just tick off my check-boxes, of being the one.

And let our love be a beautiful love ballet.