In these realms where your gaze lingers, they lie still,
like moss upon ancient seats—what minds dare to welcome
the defeat of a heart, or a soul that invents sweetness?

As her gown unfurls, caressed by the winds of passion,
oh, the trance of a lover newly discovered! Their skins meld
into one, basking in the bliss of a honeymoon beneath the
tender glow of their first moons after their wedding night.

Does time not twist and turn, restless only for those
who toss and turn each night- restless; stranded on the wrong
side of rest? Yet, a new day must grace our faces with its luscious
cherry lips, refusing to relent in casting a foolish brightness
upon our kind, igniting our eyes with its relentless glow.

Oh, would you not yearn to be the lover of the sun; to reflect
its anguish through a pure, innocent light? Your form shrouded
by the gown of clouds, oh sweet beloved—what joy it is to behold
you as you truly are, unadorned this night!

Find for me a decent love that stirs a distant heart,
If I dare to love you, can I still remain the man I am—
the man you truly want?

Stitch me together with the stars; I shall fall deeper
in love, ready to fulfil every wish you want.
Adrift on the ocean, we’ll let time drown, washing
away the moments we’d share in this love.

Record my emotions like a demo tape,
tracking the melodies of my heart—
my mind, is a mere spark igniting the edge of a match,
checking the box to reveal the flame that yearns for
the love I too want.

            Want, want, want love... That is all I need, to want.

An itch of an inch – scratching to reach that place we once
walked; it was almost the measure of love; with elevating
conversations that led to a level of trust. Now wearing linen
divorce clothes, to separate the time that wore us down; as I
carried a smile in a frown; as we all plant a seed of respect we
have for others, hoping in due time it flourishes.

But trust me, winter is loveless – summer is the state of your
heart, where the sun still longs to shine even when it’s hidden
behind the clouds. Love is needless, to those who only respond
by the own feelings; looking for someone just to entertain them,
by only giving them a good feeling.

As all my bones break in despair; at the sound of the skeletons,
I must break in my closet – my soul shakes like the trees caught
in a storm; with electric branches. I’ve been struck down; made
to be someone with no passion, no meaning, or digression.
Passive-aggressive – only out of annoyance; for an inch of my
life, revolves around entertaining people who show pieces of
their true colours, and still expect me to act colourblind.

How they offend my sight!

A man without a purpose,
perceives himself as a failure,
even in the gaze of those who don't see him.

His thoughts spiral, envisioning the
hope of light at the end of the tunnel,
only as a receding spark, like a distant star,
as he plunges deeper into a hole.

These are his thoughts when he’s alone –
this is NOT a poem!

The glee of joy
   Was a smile stolen under a cheek
A child of the sun as
   They brightly smiled at the:
Glass amber—fragile as time itself

    Precious became such a moment
And named her too
    Dear Precious, dearest first daughter
Now today born

I shall sow the land, tending the wheat
    Laying the gardens watered by my tears
    Placing at you reason to sing glory of provision
I’ll unmask the stars
   To make of a place to place your fears

Sweetly, sweetly shall my songs be as a quiet moon
   The cool of night—and whispers of good sleep
Oh shall I hold an ocean back, of the wrath of conquering
   For man would pleasuring want you as land
I pray it be the Lord who steals your heart
  Blessing your spoils to be tenfold to all others
Soon are you and I to meet

  So of this piece: saved are the words I have of you
The admiration of you my child
    Is you coming to be; soon, soon shall we meet

We take slow drives to nowhere;
Towards a Sunday drive, with your heavenly kisses
On my lips. I close my eyes, being out of touch, out of time,
out of lines, and all out of rhymes.

As I head outwards into space; on my Tuesday highs,
Feeling so warm at heart, but I can’t stay inside,
But maybe I’ll love you by this Thursday’s vibe,
Comparing our loves for things we both like,

And kiss in rhythm;
Until our tongues dance on each other,
But there’s never enough time...Only of the one
You and I make together.

Let's make the time to love.

Are we;
are we are?
To be;
what is love,
Love is what?

Who are we,
Are we just who?
Why do we live;
Or rather,
why we live & do?

How we are to be;
be it how; we are-
Us; Love, All Creations of God.

I guess...

I used to wish that I could die young;
but of late it's just been outdone,
As life is no fun. Gambling it all out with
no funds.

But what if I died young,
or whatever people considered young?

How tragic would be,
since that's been the reoccurring theme?
From burying adults and teens. These week
we're burying kids.

I guess...

I don't have any real tears; but just the eyes
of so many questions.
"If we're worth so much, why can't I cry
when those who die were so precious,"
my heart asks only in it's lonely confessions.

Would you hate me if I sigh,
when you tell me a loved one died?
Would you expect me to cry,
when I say, "oh, another death idly passing by,"
And would you expect me to have the words,
just for me to say, "oh, never mind."

I guess...

You'll probably think I'm a terrible guy.
But I'm sorry. I've just lost so much,
I don't think I've got the time to cry.
You can dig into my chest to find emotions,
but I wouldn't say they're all mine.

But why do I rhyme about death,
because the end words help me not focus
on somebody's last dying breath.

Yes,
that's not a good way to cope with death,
but I find it best. Than to be searching for
feelings that will overwhelm my chest.
But maybe I'm just a mess?

I guess...

I know people who
sold their secrets to bottles
That don't taste life
they just swallow.
For me I poured out my heart,
thinking it would be colossal.

When I thought loving was
strange for having me falling
But love can also be like the rain
have tears pouring.
So don't mistake the past,
or erase out the pain, it's all for absorbing.

I've learnt more from past loves
more than what I put in it,
Had a taste of loving someone
though times I didn't believe it.
I've chased feelings till I
got caught by love,
Disregarded  a lot of my ways
just  to have better ones thereof.

Cause love will break you
but makes you who you are,
It's shaped me well, but also
had to leave me with a scar.

We've all been victims to hurt
chasing a buzz,
All taught the birds and bees,
all gotten the gift of love before Xmas.

So whether you drank from a bottle
to drown out your pain
Wrote down your promises, saying
you won't fall in love again.
Know that love will always find you
even when we stop searching,
Time will move on with love,
given time to heal is always assuring.

So to whoever listening
still searching for love outwards
Let the love of your heart heal
you first, finding love inwards.

There's a cloud—dark, gloomy tower in
the very distance. With echoes of heavy thunder,
and the growing flashes of lightning.
A cough to shake the heavens; as in the smell of
dew—it's due a season of the washing away of old.
Overflow; I speak this overflow. As in after the Storm,
cones the smell of growth. To wait patiently
on the Lord—as he is revealed behind, and of been
working through the storm.

Dark reflections is only our past,
the light on the other end
Is the future ahead.
These aren't reasons to live,
rather necessary facts.

What kind of person would I be, to love you
even when I don't love all the parts of me...

Would I give you a sense of certainty
even when we don't look so certain to be?

It would be criminal to love me!

don’t hug me for too long, just to suffocate my heart; then
look at me surprised when I tell you, “I think I’m in love.

don’t point me out so quickly as your man – I don’t
want to disappoint you.

don’t look into my eyes for the value of love; I’m also
still confirming the price.

don’t bother yourself giving me a cold shoulder, as a child
I enjoyed chewing on ice.

don’t force me to show you my love, my presence around
you will make sure it’s more than enough.

but…

do tell me constantly, “I love you” –
those three very words, I haven’t heard them enough.

I value the lips to a modest dream
The fresh lipstick – outlining one’s imagination
In soft brush strokes; as the dreams of my child
Are quite distant nowadays, still silhouettes to a recent age
The metaphysical footprints of walking in faith, the path
It’s… so narrow on the trail of yellow grass; the sun is on
My back, like a long-legged shadow in this urban darkness

Questions bring up less of their answers- my life a riddled
Experience on a dusty path, where manure litters the street,
Pretending the smell is all so vague- but those **** flies!

I am alone, patrolling the ideas of one’s calling, beneath a
Crescent moon – from youthful screams, too loud to hear
The purpose to all my chaotic dreams: perhaps now,
I’m finally awake in the world, to see what it all means?

Styrofoam around my heart; a cardboard box around it,
To pack away memories of love. Crustacean lips, for every after
Taste of kissing; once of fishing for the one- that illusive catch
Still with the selfish desire to claim someone as my own, alone-
A greed like cigarettes staining fingers; crying only to myself
But never counting those tears in the broken mirror, of a bathroom

As this hubris of a man, is quite humorous;- truly starved of direction;
Yielded in such a dishonest method. A chance of, “shooting your shot,”
A posing act of perhaps creating your own weapon to **** yourself
Parlour tricks, for the conformality of society- a human preference
At this point. These unspoken rules, carefully set down: find someone,
Get married, do your purpose to multiply, work diligently to maintain
Appearance/experience memories together; as from finding love as
One being single, to leave those you loved mournfully single;
As only those set apart, ironically get to die together. Oh, how
Wonderful would such a pension to love be- but not often given freely.

Love is equal the letters of it being just Lust,

and it’s forbidding what it means to love you; and how it starts to
make me feel like a demon— love, you're my enduring possession.
All the parts of you, are where the memories of my touch reside,
inside! And I'm a knife of pride; cutting at my throat, every time I
have to swallow that disguise of an insecure man. We both find
security by the taste of our love; along with this key to your heart—
though I act as your prisoner, with no escape plan.

Knowing angels that fall in love; just windup falling out of heaven—
this atmosphere of what it takes to find the resolve to kiss you, fills
me with so much pressure. I don't want to love you just for pleasure, I
don't want to flip a coin of love to get too ahead of myself; calling you
my only treasure.

See when pride marries an extraordinary beauty, it all sits on a throne
you dare not to own — the evil that could be found in this love/lust, is
an evil that would even unsettle the Devil. And I'm not content on
missing out a spot in Heaven.

Would you teach me how to love a little –
even for the little bit of the time we actually have,
right before you have to let me go…

Even if we end all things being mean to each other
could we share one final kiss, as if the spark of
our love still flickers; to know what love means –

Grant me a love that can lift these tears; pulling the
daggers out from my heart, just to etch your
memory on my skin – even when we’re no longer
connected, these tight knots in my chest suffocate me!

Love isn't always euphoric –
Authentic love is a profound joy;
Unwavering support, those who
Stand as pillars in your life

Supported by one's feet, but...
Love isn't always euphoric –

   Some pillars do fall!

We're all living in worlds too small; strangers on the
streets, all our eyes surely met before. The crowd
seems so small, when everyone in it, you might have a chance
to know. Even if I kissed a thousand girls, it feels like I've had this taste before.

But I strangely want more.

My world isn't round, or flat. But a box with people, filled to the
max; of people you call fam. Everybody is an uncle, auntie, or
cousin. Stuck at those family gatherings; with the same old discussions.

"Tell your mother I said hie," the message that never makes it home. We don't take the time to get the clearer message,
when we're all playing broken telephone. We have too many
big problems, in worlds too small.

We want to know everything in our heads of worlds too small.
But when you done buying useless knowledge at the mall,
you could give me a call. Careful not to raise your voice, everyone is listening in worlds too small.

And it's never too hard to find yourself, in worlds too small.

By the time any read this
time to me would have again fade.
Like a disappearing act
a lot to me goes to waste
As I too waste much of my time.

I'm like a broken seconds hand
while the other two move forward in time
Circling round me in this endless cycle,
always feeling left behind.

Friends are ahead in life
bright smiles and cheers
I'm left in the dark
broken somehow, but I don't know what.
Wishing I could trade in some smiles over these tears.

Another cycle in life
goes round my broken clock
It ticks away, but fails to tock,
as it's cogs are rusty and antique
Rubbing only more strain to another,
pieces that once had a gleam, no longer blick.

I break so many times
but try not to stay broken
I felt weak as a youth
Low and down with the soil,
it scared me that will one day be my end,
When I get too old.

What if the parts of my clock
can't be fixed
Will I just be broken seconds
lost in time, or lost in my self destruction
Why hurt yourself so many times
just to see if you're still working?

I'm only trying to work on myself,
to fix the tiny pieces slipping through the cracks
Even when I crack a smile,
there's a bigger crack behind it.
It ticks away,  cracks into tiny tocks,
I pray to be fixed,
and put back together from my broken parts.

The shadows gaze silently, cloaking me in divorce clothes
–splitting my mind in two. Nobody is innocent; for even
in the innocent eyes of a child, they must grow up –
Certainly no exception to this rule. At times, I find myself
draining the essence of my dreams, spiralling into a vortex
of procrastination, throwing my efforts down the drain.

Life is a canvas, and the art of existence is wrought with
suffering – the masterpiece of my story will be a portrait
painted with my blood, sweat, and tears, left as a haunting
Stain.

Yet, how we cast judgment upon the suicidal for not being
brave– praising the brave for flirting with the precipice of
risking their lives. As a true master of their courage; are
those who confront their deepest fears and still strive to
soar beyond them.

Still, I’ll walk through night as a strange person follows me;
only to discover that the shadows watching silently are
merely the echoes of my own regrets.

Asking myself where do I fall in people's eyes
–brave or suicidal...

I often feel mistaken to the fact that I could be doing wrong a thousand times,
Simply because the fact I could be telling a thousand more lies.
Well truthfully speaking it felt so easy to get lost in something wrong,
Numbing myself in what my spirit tells me not to do.  Yet still doing it for so very long.

So anyway I woke up today pretty much same as I always have and sometimes will.
Though, shouldn't I be waking up to find new ways to put my troubles to rest and not let them  roam free to ****.

Troubled by so many many things.
What does my own future hold for me. Memories of how many times I've fallen in love yet they were all just so many flings.

But not the love for a living being,  rather the living desires of a lustful heart.
Obsessed with how their sweet taste breaks me and rips my spirit right apart.

Just a ticking time bomb, that I desperately need the codes to defuse.
If I could go back in time to guide my former self,  I would teach  you how to refuse.
But it's best not to live in such a distant different past, for I find hope in this today's counting.
Though I may have lost track of my own plot, I just simply need rerouting.

So reroute my mind,
So I may become to myself a much better kind.

seem to forget all the places I’ve gone, still remember
all those I’ve loved – while our dreams still attract my
imagination; dressed in your night gown.

the breath of a lover’s skin still tingles even after she’s gone;
yet it would be the older version of me, teaching the young –
that even the ones with a bag of ***, still carry their baggage;
that even with a bag of tricks by your side, a better man will
make your best love, seem so average.

trading paint over our skins; just to paint a picture of a future;
a man finds joy in knowing he’s the present suitor – though if he
can’t dress the part of her life, please don’t shed tears when she
finds one that suits her.

but maybe I wrote this for all the losers – perhaps, “you sir”

so said the man looking at himself in that mirror. third wheeling
their love as a chauffeur. he once took the financial risk of finding
love. an entrepreneur – yes, “you sir”

           didn't plan to lose her, but hey there, Mr Loser.

Behind the eyes of tv screens-
they’re busy watching us Netflix & chilling
Let’s binge on kisses until every show finds its end
show of hands if you’ve been searching for that
touch of love, that makes you fall in love again, and again…

Her eyes are like petals, that open up to me
as my words are the splash of love that helps her grow
She holds onto me like a dream you hope never to forget
inside my head, I imagine fulfilling her every wish that
requires a bed…

If I **** this world,
is it not suicide.
The same world we live in,
is the same blood of human,
Where we all reside.

Now your eyes,
are pretty as the ocean, and crying whenever
it makes you feel blue. A sad tragedy, something I
myself can be too.

Uttering no words,
but all to trying to speak our very hearts.
And what does it say; what all does it bare?
The hurts of passion; so bitter sweet of pain,
all with your heart in hand. All the emotions you
hold onto, dare I say: 'you hold onto a tragic past love?'

It was painted with faith;
but not of the colours it wants be,
It was painted with love;
but as for now, how much of it can I see?
All of the eyes stories I've seen, but of their mouths
that won't tell. Casting charms of luck; but the words
to their love they even can't spell.

The enchantment all of one's former delights,
no otherwise from others in your life. I've warned you
not to trick my heart. I don't do well with any kind of magic.
But oh how I'm in love with being so tragic.

Tragically in love with you.
The tragedy of us both being so tragic in our past loves.
We're the tragedy to love.

If Truth & Love are an object; I’m objective to that statement;
For the girl of my dreams — I’m maybe lucid dreaming,
Or just another hopeless insomniac; a hopeless romantic!

Dreamt up love stories – mostly are their unhappy endings;
Falling in love, while quietly hoping my feelings aren’t,
The only ones to catch me; it’s all going to be so tragic!

Falling too hard now — having no means to get up;
Having no pieces of a heart left, to cope with the feeling,
Of breaking up; knowing I’ll start to act so dramatic!

These are the insecurities of being in love;
It's so rough; the one I once loved became so traumatic!

Human nature: fault of our demise, ideas of peace we genocide;
Premediated suicide, as are the thoughts of killing myself for
The livelihood of someone younger living out their dreams

Peace isn’t cried out for, until the cries of war unhurriedly die out
To love one another, is to have something we all hate together
A hate so hot to hold onto, it could boil an egg in my hand
While the bags of my eyes carry a lot- in their sagging clouds
Before rain; tears in the eyes of man showing no mercy

Governments neglect you, hiring a river in the way of
Drowning sailors; strict kings, ruling over a collapsing sea
Men believing fortunes live with them, while moving their tents
In a desert’s empty heart, scorpions join in to sting your naked feet
Ruling the world; in the freshly turned soil- the Sweat of Humanity
Still man themselves, are as divided as that soil meeting its erosion
Mothers feet are wet, dripping prayers, crying for their lost sons
Fathers hide in secret places, to mourn over their widowed daughters

What is the idea of what they call, “peace,” while guns are the
Answer to their questions; as the devil quietly pulls the triggers
Our blood shouts out, slicked across the streets- crying for peace
But man takes it as an offence, uttered from a child’s lips.

Peace is irrelevant, rhetorical, paradoxical,
But when it comes to the griefs of war, peace is inevitable.

Right here, in between Heaven and Hell

right here, is the world – and some dream of owning the world, but
it already owns parts of your mind. And when someone asked me
when I wanted to die, I saw the hurt right in their eyes when I said,
"right now, would be fine."  Though it's been a while, since I’ve
thought about suicide – but even with all the maturity, some days
that glass of wine, doesn't feel so fine. The glass looks half empty;
probably because we first have to whine. Could life be like a girl, with
a big chest; do you still know how to say it with your chest? Calling
a ***** a *****; maybe I just need a love to find– digging it out my
heart for someone, just to call them mine.

But love isn't gold as much; it’s silver nowadays – where you come
second after the bad boy who first broke their heart. And that’s still if
it’s to your own best of luck; if they hadn’t gone through a bunch–
wanting your love now, only when you’re out of love. Or is it meant
to be out of luck – four letters to that word, “Love?” Where the match
you find, is like a fresh match striking the box – it has to go through a
few sparks! Maybe the complimenting four letter word is, “Loss;”
gaining the worth of something now, after the few times you had it
for a loss.

But I don’t know what I want, I’m just dealing with a lot!

my girlfriend would wear baggy jeans – being my solitude, as a
faithful lover. it’s just the darkness she has in her genes. sometimes
I cut her fingernails, to stop her from biting them – she starts to bite
me instead. my sad stories are all reflected in her tears; she tried to
cut my hair, and cut right deep into my thoughts – I’m always
thinking out loud.

she sits on my lap, just to have a window seat; her hair is like a
forest, that the comb loses it’s teeth. still my fingers run through
the woods; dark as a night, where my eyes become her moon.

and she’s the wettest dream – a real sensual thing; being like a
water Queen. she knows I can't water down my words, or kiss her
less without our spit. “kiss me before we go” – even if we’re just
going to the corner store.

but that’s just the thing; I’m in the market for finding hope in
my dreams – for this person only exists in my dreams. sigh!

“I don’t really exist, and I know I don’t exist,”

so it says – being latent, until it’s been found.
Where I sometimes break down by the corner
of Writer's block; where the drive I had for
something, finds an abrupt stop.

In truth,

this Writer's block doesn't exist; it's just
a point of time, the writer needs to BREATHE.

I was once-
swallowed by the sun;
that spat out a star,
That was shot into the ocean,
swimming a thousand miles...

By the shores-
of what was foreign land,
Different to their eyes,
of my dark bright skin, and
strangest ideas...

As when you're unique-
you'll walk a longer mile;
finding your way to fit in...

The proof;
is all under,
my feet.

Life is just the façade of plastic – plastic money; currency crafted
from synthetic dreams, one's plastic love; affections moulded in
artificial forms. Too much of the latter; a toxic one's greatest trait.

Plastic taste; threads of regret cling to my teeth – my palate’s
insides churns; the words of people made of plastic bullets; still
their weight hurts.

Gazes of a select few friends resemble patient crows, observing
the burdens you bear in a plastic bag of your baggage. A course of
those processed foods; processed natural flavours – sprinkle a little
more sugar to add weight to that plastic container.

“You don’t really match my flavour,” I wouldn’t know how it
really tastes – my heart; I’d love to give you a taste, but it’s often
filled with so much hate. And as I try not to break what holds my
food for thought; I keep my dreams on a plastic plate.

But even plastic breaks, just with the right weight.

So tell me, why are you trying to carry the weight of the world?

Can you not hear
the murmurs of your skin tone –

Oh darling, your decimal smile,
is a testament to the value you own

Your kiss is an ode, your soul
a ballad; and your body is a poem.

How could a man articulate
your essence, if not through his words –

For these mere words fall short,
even for ones whose pride stands tall

A love letter, I find myself enveloping,
so unwilling to let go; wishing I could
have you as my girl.

She says,

"Open up your eyes to me," while we were on a blind date.
Some opinions come a bit late; early remarks are great —
And there’s a fearful much of men, of that phrase,
"oh, I'm late."

But I fear when she's running late for our date,
And secretly isn't coming anyway.

So my eyes remain shut; as from first interactions,
It looks for us, this thing isn’t going anywhere!

I hate my poetry, straight after I write a poem,
shed tears whenever I read them in my head,
Cringe at old works, grinding my teeth at grammatical
errors. I shake in my nerves when I show someone
a piece. Feel like a failure, when their response is just,
"okay"

I roll my eyes at my basic rhymes, and hide myself inside
at unnecessary lines. I choke on my confidence
when I read out loud. My mind shuts on itself when
I can't express myself so well.

I grow envious of those who write better than me, and
sadly admiring greats, I can never come close to be.
I sigh at those making trends online, and awkwardly smile
for those who impress the entire crowd.

Some nights I hate to be a poet, and I know it.

Still none of these things will ever stop me from writing,
and all of those flaws, I proudly own them.
As in the moment; I love being known as one writing a
good enough poem.

Poetry brings all my insecurities, my fears and doubts.
But it also brings out all of my creativity, bravery, and emotions.

                          I love to write poetry. I love to be a poet.

A heart can be stolen; a heart swollen, — it could be a crime  to love; and a love to be much bigger than you can handle That twists at every idea of thought; words to say fittingly,  knocking at your heart’s door; blindly searching for that handle.  

Love is blind; to not see the RED FLAGS  in the daylight,  its wild too; a creature parading ecstasies at night —a bat in hindsight; while batting an eye at every swing  of love you make. Sometimes you hit, sometimes you miss,  and feel like you’ve made another mistake.
  
When two lovers meet; I’m reminded of their love  being a piece of steak,— it could be tender, the feelings  too raw, or too tough to chew on the other’s words Whenever they get under your skin; don’t speak a reply in vain.  

For love is joy, love is bliss, love is curiously strange,  love can be hate, and more so bring you great pain What would the world be, if love never existed in the first place?

Funny so
how my accent changes around white people
and I wrinkle memories I have on worn out clothes
Funny so
the sound of life hasn't an echo
and my reading voice isn't a girl's
Funny so
I read subtitles over the loud sound
and can sing a song, but read lyrics like a poem
Funny so
music can easily move your feet
yet love's symphony—makes me scared to skip a beat
Funny so
how we can smile the brightest in the dark
also telling a crooked lie through straight teeth
Funny so
how every world eventually becomes small
every person you come across—cousins yet to know
Funny so
how we call girls for dimes
but call her gold-digger later on in life
Funny so
how she calls all men dogs
but always loves barking up the wrong tree
Funny so
how we weren't taught enough about the ******
now the baby mamas we want to condemn
Funny so
we say actions speak louder than words
yet our own actions contradict the Word
Funny so
I laugh while telling a ***** joke
but will look at you as a joke, for making a dry joke
Funny so
how you can never really quench the thirst
the same way you can't water down a harsh truth
Funny so
the wife can count her *******
while the husband makes it count to always be first
Funny so
how we all have a good start, but end so poor
just like I started this piece, and don't know how to end my poem

                                    Well ****—I guess that's the end of the joke.

Pink sky; a blushing moon
by the compliments of dusk

By the sun—shown to be overbearing
shadows, chasing behind a tall stranger

The clouds have covered the sightseeing
tour of the journey to a questionable life

A bearing chest of emotions,
bare hairs, and without pride to speak

I feel the crawling sensation of a love sicken
child, under my skin.

You have given me peace from a piece of mind,
a piece of story we're yet to experience

Set opinions on my back, are the setbacks I have
on this love and its resilience

Wishy washy—soaked ideas of a love
I've written about on a Christmas wishlist

A letter in pink, a type of hoping for
good weather for the next day

                         .....perhaps whether I'll find the right love one day

Lost in feelings like a child who has lost their mother’s hand in a clothing store. What can I cling to as life begins to wear me down? I feel out of place in this room, surrounded by a sea of people who adorn themselves in ways that garner admiration from others. My neck is slick with sweat; my eyes heavy with tears, burdened by the smoke swirling in my chest like a traveller stuck in customs.

The ultimate destination is, of course, my head, where thinking of myself in a future tense is so heavy on my brain. My lips start to tense, speaking of the past with a few old friends – I’ve aged too well, that those grappling with the youthful insecurities I once faced believe we’re age mates.

Still what’s looking for a mate: a joint occupant; though my joints ache a bit too much. A soulmate in the wake of these days, but what good is finding one if you don’t really have a soul. So lost in myself.

where are feelings aren’t involved – feels like we’ve evolved
backwards; undecided on whether we’ll do it for gain or the
appearance of love; this life lacks resolve. from a mortal heart,
is this strangely undying immorality – an act of all our sin being
washed off our backs, though pieces of it seeming much harder to
dissolve.

at this gravesite – would the flowers you bring for me often,
be the ones picked out of your heart; or just be a bunch of weeds
to pick on me one last time, where you washed my face with your
crocodile tears in my coffin.

would the angels and I be laughing – knowing that those who
spit on your grave will one day meet you again. you could still
water my grave in spit; I’ll still grow you pretty flowers.
they’ll hate you secretly, yet join you in saying Amen.

it’s okay… we pray for them often, to deal with the hate
they have towards themselves.

Mother earth, oh mother earth; may I cherish
these precious moments of such an outstanding woman
— in these delicate grains of sand slipping through an eye’s hourglass.
For all will pass by as quickly as the gentle whisper, but the love of a
mother is undying, in all its outspoken words in these countless days.

Even as time dances forward, I fervently hope
that through it all, my dearest mother, shall I always
remember your love, joy, and peace, withstanding the test
of these countless days.

Carelessly putting your smile on display, as the portrait
of constantly looking towards brighter days.
A mother’s radiant happiness, becomes the focal point,
brightening up even the darkest corners of these countless days.

For if I could express all the thankfulness, I have of you
each day, it would all be countless in these countless days.
Happy Mother’s Day.

"Let’s circle back,” said the square to a circle of friends –
a bit offensive, when you tell two skeletons to have
some skin in the game – that’s your own bone to pick.

But tell me, what’s a bed of roses without a sheet; the
two get tangled in the sheets when they’ve tied the knot.
But what really trips me up is, "falling head over heels,"
I’ve got two left feet, so how badly will this affect me?

Cliché much…

Yes, I do say – when I’m bit under the weather of a Perfect
storm; but even as the apple doesn't fall far from the tree,
someone picking out your own pride in your children, is
low-hanging fruit. And how long it takes you to understand
my humour; others would name the seconds it takes them to
get my jokes, in the Nick of time.

I’ve given these cliches their love.

rental cars – parked away ideals across the street; had a bite of the
sweetest dream, but must have chipped a few teeth. backwash waters;
just a taste of love – most of it stayed in the bottle, still I enjoyed that
little sip.

rental cars – parked a little too close to the darkness, under a
billboard sign that gave directions to the light. by day I’m all that the
world’s eyes believe of me; the genius of one’s destiny only revealed
by prayers late at night. but maybe I’m preying more than praying –
believing in all the wrong, hoping to come up with something right.

rental cars – sometimes I feel like I’m on this journey of life with so
many borrowed things, paid for dreams, passenger fears – sticky
gears, imbalanced wheels, a rusty engine, and an unfair lease
agreement, that I pray will expire long before the next few years.

welcome to a bad religion
peers in pews of being a Sunday Christian
quoting common scripture;
commonly known as Bible bashing criticism
in an imperfect world criticizing you
for not being this perfect Christian

wishing Godspeed to those who rush
to that umbrella answer; "you don't pray enough"
living in the reigns of worship being entertainment for a heart
some blocking their ears from being cut by words
by a sermon so blunt

but how do you build strong character on soft words
and how could you test their foundation, without some force
as after you pray for patience; the devil loves to test
those desiring words, by a day feeling like the worst
still you forgot Jesus had spoken about woes

...doesn't it seem as far too see; modern Pharisees
we who speak about God, but do not love God
we who preach lively about God, but in with a dead heart
we who sacred a temple, but just because of their objects
we who teach a law, but not practising in turn those words
we who appear clean in public eyes, but so ***** in secret
we who act righteous, but hold onto a shaking hand with unrighteous
we who defend a reason not to ****, but ****** another in ill speak

...it's only a bad religion,
to us being such a bad representative

Imagine, the whispers of love tainted on your lips – reading those
signs in your words; where your love is so desired, that once you
fell in love, it all descended upon the world. While man was made
from the dust of the ground; how quickly he sells himself so short;
just becoming dust that’s cheaply sold.

Oh, was it her, Wisdom; she knocked on his door, but nobody came,
from the raining despair of life, she came looking for warmth, as she
shivered in her overcoat. But you only gave her lip service, never
paying attention to her words, even as she handed you her quote.

Over the intercom’s speaker I could hear her call, “it’s me honey;
it’s me,” but I was a whelp who was more in love with the world.
“Let me in—I’m so cold,” still I chose the warmth of this world to
keep warm, but she’s a mistress that has no home. She roams the
streets to every man’s call – while wisdom is the sweetest kiss on
the lips, with a still glow.

And even though I didn’t accept her at the time, she still waited for
me to grow; to grow into her. She undressed herself, and took the
skin of my pen. Her beauty in my hand makes fools jealous of what
they couldn’t grasp then. As she’s the dividing rule, to separate the
boys from the men. I love her more now, better than I did then –
for she’s my lover, who stood as a constant friend.

An ode to Wisdom.

In the grand overview:
a miniature universe encapsulated within a fly’s delicate wing,
entrapped flawlessly in a mesmerizing reverie.

Futile lips that have savored the nectar of a sweet existence,
envisaging the whispered endearments of love.

All amidst a flightless winter, detached from the embrace of summer,
swift moments of the paparazzi’s intrusive lens,
devoid of an escape from fleeting trends.

Lost in the footsteps of our predecessors,
bloodlines tainted with the stench of yesteryears’ socks,
corrupt law enforcers bending the straight lines of justice,
pastors reaping rewards from tithe—promoting slander,
bound by a constricting necktie.

A captivating visage, a trivial coin’s value,
not worth a penny for a fleeting thought,
over ephemeral regrets concerning “Instagram girls,”
no foundation upon which to establish standards,
a desolate heart, a tool appropriated by the most reprehensible,
urban heights in pursuit of an intoxicating sense of glamour.

As society’s vigilant eagle observes it all, soaring through the skies,
yet the sight of it all leaves one plagued by a sense of discomfort.