Adios— and kudos to those we wished to have known better;
those we could have cherished more deeply than the first
lovers who introduced us to the art of Love.

Fit me in your glove of memories, holding onto the finest
moments of your past— walk me along the winding journey of
your heart. That road, with its unexpected twists and steep climbs,
that even the purest of all love encounters, has its share of bumps
and hiccups. Hic— all those hickeys you tried to conceal beneath
a high collar, were mere whispers of affection hidden from prying
eyes. Yet, I never felt the need to mask my own; it was as if I was
denying a piece of the love I always held onto- for a period.

In the flavour of unspoken words—we rarely conversed
face-to-face; instead, we lost ourselves in endless texts and phone
calls. Reflecting on that frustrates me, for I could pour my heart
into a fleeting love poem, while the words I longed to share in
person danced just out of reach, trapped by my mouths writer's block.

The hopeless romantic hopes for love just as fiercely, but it
feels hopeless as those who feign strength right after their
hearts have been broken. Its so easy to lie to yourself.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous,
Not a million, but it still feels like I made it.

Chasing dreams, man it feels like I'm the greatest,
Been racing time, but I still know how to pace it.

Seen some pretty girls in my review mirror, **** still wish I could chase it,
But to be honest, if I chased them all, I would just lose my breath with all of them sitting on my lap, but still really hate it.

And I'll be honest, she had a body with more waves than the ocean.
And I'll admit, my second brain had me thinking about how I could ride every motion.

And yes I might of tried to sip this potion.
But the real truth is I'm too scared to die so young, so best to avoid it all with caution.

Still, lifestyles of the rich and famous,
Time flies, but **** it, still feels good that I made it.

All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.

All children gather round in a circle;
While in their teens in the middle-
go on playing spin the bottle.

As adults figuring out a purpose;
Life is a colour of passions-
we all could be a colour purple.

Under the shade of a plum tree;
As days are like purple leaves-
praying not to be lost in the winds.

Someone once told me;

"it's so magical to fall in love,"
And that they could never spell the words.
But love is also made up of a few tricks.
A disappearing act, when those lovey dovey
feelings don't last.

A play of hand, to lose touch of yourself,
A flip of the card asking,

"was this your love all along"
And with a flash of my wand; let's pretend all
those arguments are gone.

"Who cares whether you were right, and I
was wrong," pulling out the bunny out of the hat;
to play innocent.

Tell me where did it even come from?

But I don't hate love, just it's many magicians.
Painting a bad picture of love, to a blind eye.
The crowd awes and cheers, not noticing
what's truly behind. But I've seen behind the trick;
of love's bad side.

Still love is magical, I suppose to those
who can't see further, but just the dot on
the tip of their nose. But who really knows;
until you've been exposed to the feeling.
Where often morals go, and no remorse flows.

I guess that's what makes love so magical?

Life is a magnet;

Attracting what we like

Retracting statements;

Only after society's pushback

Hearts sometimes made of iron;

Irony seeing a hard life through soft eyes

As people are meant to be deep oceans;

But a man swims shallow— afraid to cry

Deepened by the weary of provision

Yet not provided a listening ear

She calls, "why won't you come near"

He's a magnet, pushed in a corner by fears

         ...trapped in society's magnetic fields

You’ll regret crying in my hands—
  but only because
  you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
  of how far you’ve run
  from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
  back to my door.
    Instinct.
      Muscle memory.
        Need.

You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
  balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
  The storm I drink from.
    The wound I keep pressing,
      just to feel something again.

While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
  than in heaven—
and sometimes,
  I think your mouth is the closest
  thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
  We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
  but because it delays
       the end.

Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
  instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
  under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
  from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
  and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
  beneath mood lighting
    and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
  and broken enough to
    make up
      in every way
      the word
        dares to mean.

Pictures with strangers, perhaps with the fame

I haven’t been the same; unrecognizable even with
all these fans screaming my name

There’s always a price to entertain

I entered into a much louder desperation out of my
old depression's gate. But still lying about feeling great

Still I’m among all of the greats; those who've tasted fame

Anyways, one lick of it made me sick— thick legs always
any easy pick, but I never thought I’d call someone a *****

It’s quite rich, like I am; still with his poor tastes

All these make-ups on a face; making up for your pain
make up ***, made up ideas from sexting texts

It felt a given, it would all take away my innocence

Feeling caught always in the thrill of them cheering my
brilliance; masking how it kills my feelings

To now feeling more worried about my appealing

“How’s my appearance,” factoring those experiences
would they still take me less than serious

Sort of shook hands with the president

Still preferred the picture; not being in a picture with him,
looking like I live on his immoral morals like a resident

Paranoid paradise: so relaxed on being anxious

The camera flashes always judge my actions,
calling me old fashioned. Not fashioned in those factions

Overthinking what to put under my caption

Capture a moment, but the camera lens is the only forever
lasting smile; soon I’ll be turning into Mr Passive

Still I had a passion, beforehand

Fame served me a lot to handle in a forehand, nobody
understands the grip of fame in Hollywood’s tight hand

Serving you free chicken

*******, and thighs— Bets and thongs, a high supply
of different women. Swallowing their pride and your children

A million dollar tub, but still feeling filthy

“Oh really, you think you can have your soul back,”
the devil now outside, once only one within me

I made a deal to die at fifty

Knowing the fame won’t last me that long, feeding myself
to an empty richness. So **** greedy!

But hey, I guess I made it

What would have been the chances; still if only I had
waited a little longer for God’s right answers.

But hey mama, I’m famous...

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
“you ought to open up more,” which opens
his worth to being diminished.

We only cry when the world is asleep, painting
smiles on our faces to render our outer walls
somewhat pleasing to your gaze.  

We fight private wars, striving to shield those
we love from the fallout – yet the scars we bear
are somehow unsightly in your view.

We’ll conform to your contradictions, offering
our utmost to project an image of strength for
the women, while our brothers are the only ones  
who truly understand our weaknesses.  

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
and it is only his fellow men who can truly
witness their tears.

This man, this earthly man, a secret dancer in the night,
Behind these closed doors and shut eyes, is breathless with all his fright.
I'm a thief in the night but a hero keeping a close eye to himself,
Fearing what  his own difference could bring him, I'm still praying to God for a little more wealth.

And I cry so much even though my eyes are as dry as desert sands,
I laughed so much till my eyes could burst out and fall into my two earthly hands.
And I fell in love so much so that it becomes a constant dream,
I asked for so much in my head and hope all these prayers reach up to him.
I try not to hate but I hate that idea,
I try not to lie but I'm lying to myself right now, my greatest fear.
I think of a distant future but want to live in a distant forever past,
I build castles in my head with golden bricks, hoping that they will forever last.

And I watched all the other kids  dancing in circles while we were sitting in squares,
The boys were kissing all the girls while we were fixing up all our lustful stares .
The girls we loved were loving somebody else,
The men were growing backwards and we were grooming ourselves.

And I  lost the time a couple of times like all other men,
I fell prey to my own flesh till it grew bitter and plain.
I ***** that girl in my head without laying a finger, but undressed her in my head,
I told that demon I wouldn't let him in but I opened the back door instead.

So my father would forgive me for a lot of things I've done, the things I've said,
I would need a comforting hand, I would need a heavenly best friend.
Because I'm a earthly man with this flesh so weak and cold,
A mortal man growing to be so very old.

Take me to heaven right now,
Take me far away from here,on my knees I bow.

This prayer from a sinful man amongst all the other sinning men,
Angel take my prayer up to him, in his mighty name I pray, Amen.

Oceans and tides; oh to see the lines of time

A clear glass from the inside; sands to the days of our lives

It pushes and pulls, washed in a before and after
children alongside running under the sun—a teared laughter

We are young and wild as the sea;
a moment we feel alive, and free —seasonal highs and lows
time is young and moves slow. But it will eventually grow

Hurricanes, and cyclones on the wayside, I see destructive eyes

A man is wicked by his pride; to prize what some despise
never to admit fault to it's mind. Oh never mind!

...his land is home, a poem
unheard clearly in the distance of ocean birds
Would you prefer us as lakes, but it's late to see
every man is deeply drowning in their own seas

Is he free, or swims endlessly
till they can't swim no more
            oh who really knows

When a little boy cries, we hold him and tell him,
“it’s okay”
But when he becomes a man, we push him away,
“hey now, don’t be ga..”

Yet you’re happy to be everything to everyone, even if it
gives the impression that it benefits you the most – bend
a bone to break yourself, to prove you belong.

But if a man breaks down being honest; be honest, he has
to prove himself – that his tears really belong to his struggles,
to fully showcase everything that is so wrong, to leave an
impression on everyone.

The darkness has counted and held most of my tears, along
with my fears that one day they’ll all be revealed.

Ziplock tie,
a piece of skin caught in a jean
fabric stained, sticky sweat
under a cool breeze. A little wind in
between; hanging cause
Shaving necessary for release from
pores

Bumps and scrapes
awkward looking, and ingrown hairs
blades of grass—pasture flesh land
Sprints of watered perfume, and
the only time man has a tender hand
Cleanliness; cleanse of appearance
to look and feel good in the end

             ...do play ball in taking care of your *****

A larger friendship circle: the terror of making yourself new friends,
looms larger when it feels you’re just making yourself new problems.
It’s haunting to hear others revel in tales of passion, people
boasting about making love, but never mentions on making up.

Ah, the daily charade of donning a flawless smile – the reluctant
application of makeup. And here’s the most piercing question in the
air heavy: “When was the last time you felt a gentle touch?”

The deafening silence that responds back, “Does the touch of
sadness still count?”

Fear not, dear child – you have blossomed into adulthood, you’re all
grown up, and have grown enough to know how to count. Count on
knowing things WILL one day work out. Stop yourself from counting
yourself out…

                                  A personal mantra I whisper to myself.

Lack the better skills in communication,
finding words in this hidden location.

It's beautifully who I am,
a painted picture of the shyness of this empty man.

Who looks forward to a lot of things while looking back,
and the life he left behind seems to find itself upon his map.

A touch of time —
feels like marigold marmalade,
like spending slow summers together.
Syrup-dripping tears sting as they stick
to your face, attracting bees; and those
jarring truths of a dream unfulfilled.
It stays sealed in glass—sweetness
postponed, a closed jar never tasted.

You plant a flower of hope in the smallest
of gardens, and prove that even a drop
of nectar can fertilize your faith.
You want to rest in blessings, but
blessings move — so must you.

You pray for daily bread, but life
kneads your hands into making it.
You earn your piece, then spread it
like marigold marmalade on warm bread.

Because life isn’t so sweet; dreams only
taste a little once you finally get a bite.
And Lord, could we be forgiven for
craving the fruit of another’s labour?
As we mistake living for pleasing —
and forget to live for our destined reason.

We're all marvellous,
shining bright diamonds.
All the stars within us,
as God has made.
Different in places,
but we'll all bleed the same.

A marvellous people,
a tad complex simple.
All a riddle,
indeed this marvellous creature.

Marvellous are we all, all are marvels to be marveled.

I've seen the glass of your eyes,
as the glow brightly of a reflecting despair,
Desires of a searching heart; still unfound
as we've gone a couple rounds
To a cost of pleasure, divided in equal parts;
we are the amount of a harmonic ****** found
Seeking multiplication; hopefully not by mistake,
and parasites at the most, feeding on each other's side
longing to kiss your face, and losing my tongue in that
secret place

To make the sweetest of love- a wright,
a maker ironically who messes up your make up,
So wrong of me in such a feeling that feels so right,
a cloud of the night, who covers your eyes to the atmosphere,
Whether we weather this together, it isn't a goal of mine,
to get you to any point of dryness
And with all these kisses made of wine; red lips of passion,
with all of the kisses that don't taste less of the finest

Our silhouettes will be animations of our character,
climbing into bed lastly; as the final step of foreplay's ladder
I'm a little old fashioned, wearing myself down,
and wrinkling time with the intentions of leaving lines on your
body matter

No matter;
we'd play prior movie scenes with a little more action,
holding onto a moment in a body's lens- let's capture
The best parts of ourselves, for the best never lasts too long,
so we'd try to get the catchy parts to reminisce on its chorus
Like every popular and trending love song,
but I'm spending too much time on my own words
Especially for someone who has been waiting for so long,
so we'd best play into our desires like playing that song,
                            "baby, let's get it on"

Masterpiece of a passion painted, a lady mistress of
her fairest dame; So gentle of heart, and a love
all to wish acquainted; In the trends of oldest fashion,

Of her bright eyes of angelic fire, gliding, whereupon
two stars are dancing; Man takes hand to a leading
guide; His soul and eyes stolen— As amazement was
what he found; For by God, you are His art piece created,

Yet so disturbing to my mind, as words to express have
me so defeated; Worthy it is, speaking of you, tastes like
treasure.

My love is endless to loving plenty, for itself it does not show,
granted to love a penny. Possessions of man's ***** eyes,
Of their murderous hate— many schemes flesh has to conspire,

A change to thought, (I darest spare, lodged by Christ's
gentle love. I hope to know in the ends of prayer.)

Kind heartened I may prove, with gracious kind words,
As with wickedness stuck in mouths; as it's rotting tooth.
All that are wicked; too hide behind sweetest tongues, and
fairest smiles.

Vile, vile, vile. Oh how the world is so vile,
to us all living in denial. Greed has made them all blind.

Mistakes we make plus
the responsibility taken equals growth.
And if there's any strength from it,
are we all not at least strong.

Subtract the negativity
from positive,
Multiple it and your product is
a lot to be thankful for.
And once you divide it all,
there's a lot of happy memories,
to share with those involved.

Equal to the time of life
you have,
Is equal to the lessons we can teach.

But if we were to give it
more power,
What more would you get?

When is “enough” enough?
When doing too much ≠ enough. It falls somewhere
between “you care too much” + “you’re not doing a thing.”
If I say it with the sharpness of heart, it still lands blunt.
And I don’t want to come off like I’m doing a stunt
or overstaying my welcome.

But what is enough when doing nothing
starts to look like too much? —You ever feel like
the *** on the street —living on love that isn’t
concrete? Built on hope, but the cons increase.
They say it’s home, but the rent’s called unease.

Is there a way to multitask love —
a multiple of itself in a multiplied path?
A multitude of love in a multiverse math…
but it never really adds. Because it subtracts —
you. The more you give out ÷ the less you get back.
Yeah, it’s a trap. When you’re solving for X
but losing Y. Then you carry the one, but forget the why.
—
So I ask again: When is enough enough?
When devotion is debt, and love's just a sum
of what’s left. It’s never enough. But it’s always
too much. A pointless cost we still call Love.

Your presence right now;-
does truly matter, even if you feel for a moment,
all that you do doesn't seem to matter. With every
thread of your matter—the space you occupy-
is in its impactful reason, to matter.

My energy; do be spared of positive & negative charges,
as my eyes are polarized, amid lost feelings and wisdom gained.
A polaroid picture; as the sight of it, had to develop its
own film strip, of all my past memories.

Every thought plays out so carelessly, like a child
running in a candy store; the sweetest notion of a touch,
a heart smitten by the rush of an unforeseeable crush,
— crushed & pressed.

Yet; by the similar fashion of the pressure a lover gets,
when addressing their feelings; my own words feel overdressed;
as the formal appearance of a necktie and blazer.
Doing my best to suit the petition of love; it seems the attire
should have been a bulletproof vest, to protect my naked chest.

Still I’m liken to finding my actions uniform;
as an acquired fit, that mustn’t take all love the same.
But rather be consistent, and conforming to these set standards:
trust, openness, communication, boundaries & compromises.

For there is no greater selfish love, than the one, where one
party receives the fullest love; choosing not to let go of some.

It could prove wise, to avoid such matters of the heart;
for the heart is made of matter; the universal mass to be in love,
and how you treat love, does indeed affect the volume of set heart.

maybe good people do exist –
maybe we fail to see the good in people
maybe we fail to see the good in ourselves.

What do you think of me,
when I cry every time I sing,
When I'm so weak,
looking for strength in me?

How do you see me,
when I can't see myself need,
Looking to be,
someone in the world you can see?

And how do you love me,
when I'm only but a piece,
Going on to seek,
the greatest version of me?

I'm a tragedy,
but also glad to be me.

I'm a walking conversation,
The weird kid at the back dreaming he could change a whole nation,
Getting close to that, going to be the next demonstration.

This is just a quick story I have to run through,
But I hope it could speak to you and you and you,
The old man busy feeling so brand new.

Waiting for the day my story finds it's end,
Sleep a thousand years to dream it all on my cloudy bed,
And have a conversation with Jesus Christ my best friend.

But let me end it here this is all I have for today,
See you other time on a better day,
I'll see everybody in Heaven soon, and let's hope it's all fare play.

When we cease to understand the world,
fighting against it on our own.
Caught in between two sides of life,
but really just being torn.

The many tears that pour,
the flooded tears of lost ideas.
Lacking funds to fundraise my plans,
living in constant battle with poverty.
The war of the poor.

The employees,
of a Man who won't pay full labours.
But for the sake of the little
we make for our family.
How could we not do the work, as we utter,
"Yes sir".

In memory of memory,
I soon realize I've worked plenty for empty.
Do my best to set a foundation
for my future family.
I'd much prefer change,
even it was a thought for a penny.
To feel less of the world against me.

I'm not one at times to be easily loved, I'm also not one
you could quickly hate. I still appear afraid, even with a
brave face on. I could be romantic, but I might not have the
right words in person. I think a lot about ***, but feel comfortable
on the thoughts of still being a ****** (sometimes)

I'm not always moved by the crowd, or like to follow trends.
I'm photogenic, mixed with social anxiety amongst the unfamiliar
faces around. I barely raise my voice; sadly won't always be so manly.
I value family, though mine is so divided. Their subtle rude
humour is a form of love. I have it too, so I hope you don't mind it.

My music taste is a wide tongue of different genres.
Artic monkeys, Twenty one pilots, Frank Ocean, Kendrick Lamar,
Hippie sabotage, Bach, Earth Wind & Fire, and one or two songs
by Rihanna. I prefer to listen on my own—in the sense of bluetooth
speakers filling my anxious anxiety. At least with earphones on,         I feel free playing with full volume. And writing poems in great variety.

I'm learning to cope with long hugs, but just ease off from the
sides. It's a fight of being overly sensitive to touch; or me
liking those tingles at times. Or maybe I'm saving my sensitive
parts for a future wife. I try to swallow my pride, but it's like
a knife, cutting me from the inside. I've thought about suicide too
many times. Passions being only imaginative in my mind. A gift
with a curse behind, so unkind.

I'm unlike my father, only with his temper at better control.
They say my looks come from my mother; but my character
definitely is a mix of both.

I'm weird, humble, funny, emotional, girly (sometimes)
cautious, moody, caring, charismatic, shy, awkward, the worst
dancer (without a couple drinks in me) calm, wise, and still
finding out more about myself.

                                         Yep! That's basically me. (Messy Entirely)

Over the course of a lifetime,
one often finds themselves lost in nostalgia,
yearning for a bygone era.
However, being human comes with its flaws,
making us imperfect perfectionists,
enduring the growing pains that come with it.

Somewhere along the way,
we fail to realize that personal growth is not uniform.
Though we all enter this world through the same process,
born from a woman’s sacred embrace,
we are like branches of a tree,
diverging in our paths as we age.

Father Time, wise and unforgiving,
teaches us the brevity of this existence.
For just as scripture says,
“a man leaves his father and his mother,
and cleaves to his wife.”

Yesterday’s memories often become tomorrow’s regrets,
and sometimes pave the way for future repentance.
Yet, amidst the hardships of life,
some souls are fortunate enough
to be saved by unexpected miracles.

Neither the young nor the old should fade away,
for within them lies immense potential.
But even with the brightest ideas,
the world’s judgment may cloud their minds.
Sharing one’s plans with eager ears
does not guarantee attentive listeners.

Do not let those who treat you unfairly
create division within your heart.
Instead, multiply the power of love,
by loving others with both your mind and heart.

We are all stories written in the stars,
collecting memories from the depths of life’s pond.
Before this moment, existence prevailed,
and now it is your turn to create what will be.

Fall upon your knees in prayer,
but do not bow before ungodly men.
Choose not to judge,
and love them even more than they fail to love.
But be cautious not to let love blind you,
keeping a fine line of self-respect.

I am always with you,
like the echoes of past memories.
In the present, I am here to remind you,
to keep pushing forward.
Do not perceive my words as mere poetry,
for they are valuable lessons from a life lived before.

-my past is a bit like glass,
there's a few cracks; where
a lot of memories slip through

In a previous dream
—envious of the confident figure
with the confidence I never had
The wise words of a stranger, that I
never got enough of from my dad
As if could be; we could be free in
all of our lost dreams

Angels with temporary wings
temporary importance
temporary imagination
temporary temperance
all only so temporary
—in these depressing dreams

Finding the reasons to cry becomes an arduous task,
as time never seems to be on our side. It's disheartening,
but in all honesty, it's all dismissed, these thoughts and
moving on.

It might be more productive to search for another opportunity
or moment when tears can freely flow without judgment.
He often says, "sure I'm fine, very much so," attempting to
conform to societal expectations that men should suppress
their emotions and not shed tears.

The act of crying, however, feels like nothing more than a
mere suggestion; an optional response to the intense emotions
that overwhelm us. Revealing our true feelings seems to
invite a barrage of inquiries and curiosity from those around
us, causing discomfort and unease.

As a result, seeking solace and comfort from others becomes
nothing more than an illusory concept, an intangible notion
that we struggle to find.

In our pursuit of a peaceful heart, we are often bombarded
with well-meaning advice that we choose not to follow.
The idea of finding inner peace becomes a distant dream,
drowned out by the noise of societal expectations and the
pressure to adhere to conventional masculine roles.

So for now, we must learn to cry silently, bottling up our
feelings and playing the part of a stoic man today, in the
hopes that tomorrow will bring a change.

                         ...men don't cry!

I am a hanging thread, hanging onto life,
in this delicate fabric of existence; concealed in a shirt.
The fibres strain, so be gentle, for a harsh tug may
unravel my very depth.

Sewn together by dreams, woven with the strands
of hope, my soft cotton faith absorbs the anguish
that surrounds me.

I am a hanging thread, hanging on for dear life –
with a singular, poignant message to impart:

Hang in there!

Them: How do you know that you've finally gotten over your ex?

Me: When the drunk version of me laughed at the idea of texting them
late at night!

They sodomise my eyes
Penetrating ill content
Sickening imagery—cauterise an African man’s pride
Categorize me in a dark corner of their globe

How so the world spins
But we are to turn our eyes the other way
If not forced to conform to their ways, their ways confirm
We’re shunned from their perfect world

They created diseases to charge their victims of a cure
Stole the wealth of our land, to sell an end product labelled new
If only we knew the threat we pose, as they’ve always known
Placing bonds of pricey chains of, “hey I’ve got the latest iPhone”
Leading us to scorn our own kind; a few softwares behind,
“eek, your version is so old”

****** virgins/versions;
Non experienced in their translation of purpose
If said the future is only possible if we all connect
I guess we’re the ones always out of service
To conform to your ways to guarantee your service
—Are we your servants
Carrying the destruction of your wars like surrogates

To the outer world
That believes I still live outside
Fascinated whenever I see a white
Those of my whites from Africa somewhat more relatable
To my struggles, than an African American
Supposedly my brother from another mother

No, no, my dearest brother, you have Africa in title
But not inside of you. We weren’t taught by the same mother
We didn’t go through the same hardships
We’re more like distant cousins
Who only seem to relate by our skin colours
Even though you’d see me as different,
Though being much darker

To the outer world; altering my nation to your outer works
                  I’m sorry, but I can’t live in your perfect world

By night:
the wet tears are vivid of our dreams
Despite the foretold of our folklore, forbidding me
the sweet nothingness of ignorance, relayed by my blissful likening
Reality will soon bride alongside what I hoped to be a moment
--still of what time we have left,  let me put pride aside to rest

Oh yes
we are all what we hope in future—beautiful creatures formed in the
dark, to only come to light by the life in our eyes
I bid you all well; in those pursuits to success...may they not cut your eyes
But inspire lessons of your successor. Do teach the young better
For that’s all we hope to do!

May your values
Be an outshine of like the stars above your room
And may you die a peaceful death, as not a corpse flipping over in tomb
as you knit your memories in fabrication of nostalgia,
Remember this; you were woven perfectly in the womb,
not of our own human understanding; still as creations


Tis destiny to be
a roadmap upon what will be the conclusion of your story
Meet your finale with joy, honour, experiences, pain,
passion, gain, acceptance, and to praise Him of glory.

Death, is an obvious inevitable,
make every moment of life memorable
Being grave to childish thoughts is pitiful,
some people try to use you as usual
Falling for looks is foolish love,
the grass is always greener on the other side—if you water it enough
Live, laugh, let go, learn, be led, to then go lead,
love, listen, have less of boastful overtones, and have fun

The poet’s words are a gun—
they could incite by what they recite
It’s up to you to choose what sort of surrender
you pen your words to
             This message is sent out to all of you.

The night's blowouts — Are like my last candle before the night is gone. It's a comforting ritual, lighting that candle and reveling in the flickering flame... The soft glow illuminates the room, casting a gentle light on the shadows that gather. It's in these moments, in the solitude, that I find solace. I cherish the tranquility as it offers me an opportunity to reflect and escape the chaos of the world. The candle's warm glow creates a haven, —a sanctuary where I can truly be myself.

And while I don't mind being alone, there is an undeniable
pull to the memories we shared: They wrap around my mind like vines, intertwining with my thoughts and emotions.
Looking in the mirror, I see my reflection intertwined with
the shadow of your memory.
It's as if we're dancing together, across time and space,
moving in harmony with the music of our past. The melody of our shared experiences plays softly in the background, a bittersweet tune that still resonates deep within my heart.
The dance we shared was a masterpiece—,_ filled with
passion, laughter, and tears. Even though the song has
ended, its melody lingers, etching its mark on my soul.

Still like the past, the memories in it comes to pass, allowing us to grow and evolve. They are like stepping stones, guiding us towards a future where new memories are waiting to be created.
Even if I have to create a new life without you...

Ignorance in my hand, hold it too  close in my brain.
Closure in the night time streets walking a mile. Come sun or rain.
Jumping from club to club, losing a piece of myself in every building,
This drink is finally going down my system with no fight back after too many drinks. Feeling like being a little silly, with this naughty feeling.

The lights in the party are always so bright yet my soul went black.
Taking all the shots they reload in each glass. Drinking like this for all the things we lack.
All the pretty faces in here, it's a shame they won't be like this come early morning.
There be a man by the corner getting at all the girls. O'no there be his wife calling.

If my life ends up like the other vomiting his entire life into the drain,
Let me run out of here like I'm going insane.

Too late, already there from the moment I walked through those party doors,
On the hunt for the next prey to feed a man's endless hunger. Often liking to have your girls coming in fours.
The pretty ones are probably the most broken inside,
But who really cares when you just thinking about giving her next ride.


Lord save us all. Have mercy for the lost.
Credits wasted in a couple of swipes,  still spending it all tonight, tomorrow we'll all pay the cost.

Under a midnight sun; with the sounds of a substantial anthem. To those standing out, but not all can stand them—or understand them to easily brand them. It’s like a problem not to sneeze into DMs, and seeming allergic to women in the real. I have a couple mentions appearing up on reels.

Under a midnight sun; where it’s a mix of lightness and fun. Children’s tyre swings, and wearing an attire that never changes in its satire. As we all walk a thin wire of what it takes to inspire. So domesticated in a dogma, of where the bark is the only reference to a bite. Drinking the pleasures of flesh out of spite—all the thirsty people sip sprite, and come out tonight.

Under a midnight sun; ****** by a pistol of holders using that ***** gun. Let’s all have a blast in the past, to aim at old prospects hoping that they’d last. Smoking propane for a quick gas; passing comments behind people’s backs to seem like an ***. And woes to those who think of how to smash and pass.

Under a midnight sun; at a time where I need to see in the light His love. To share it with those that seem so easy to un-love. To treat as such, but I must treat them as being more than enough. To see their story through the scars, of they value being above the stars. We’ve all come from afar!

Under a midnight sun; as a song of the dawn. Sing as loudly throughout the moments dark. Sing as proudly as what lives in you is the Son.

Raging
wars inside my head
Sleeping
buried as if dead,
Four times the strain
inside my brain,
Losing count of thoughts. I forget,
Especially now
with this aching migraine.

Shut eyes
hope to block out the ache
A couple pills
to numb myself to sleep
So much so,
I might not even wake.

And of course;  
water to wash it down
I feel so much disorder,
my brain feels upside-down
Christ almighty hears me cry,
about a thorn to the Crown.

The light surrounding,
covered with a backhand
A slap of fire strikes my front end.
Praying in
the echoes of pain,
That you silence the noises
of this constant migraine.

Cornered by anxiety; 'is it worth the read?'
Exhale heavily; inhale the pressure building up my chest,
Eyes heavy of tears, drowned by this pen's debt.
Something in my eye, blinding me to the sight of life;
A blank canvas, but only an empty creative,
Nothing to inspire at the moment, just Writer's block.

Would hate to wake in a world where we all could be perfect strangers
Closing the blinds of the windows, unseeing the happiness of close neighbours.

  Using MY hands to find the bit of control I have in only a man's Childish manners and chronic addiction,
And in me sometimes you'd find the chronic anxiety of MY own confliction.

These pills could for the hour taste a bit of sweet.  
And like the child hiding under the blankets from their daily nightmares, I would try to take it as my only retreat.
And could a man be the slave to his own well being, tying his own knot to hang himself
From the richness of a heart but spending it all that would bring you nothing. Lost in such MY entire wealth.

  Why though I would ask of someone to love me for just the night
For perhaps MY greatest fear would be to wake up alone or ride alone in a slowly crashing flight.

  Still listen closely to a heart of many troubles for a word of advice.
Sitting in such of your troubles wouldn't make you any of the difference or to ease off the pain cutting you by the slice.
My own fingers would bleed out from the splinters of the Dead box I trapped MYSELF in
Or dead out in the cold furnace of the once warm heart I'd place all MY Faith in.

  For the say to think out of the box, but I tore it up from the inside
To then find humbleness before I was choked by my own pride.

  And I got a couple trophies on MY night stand,
The reminders  of the battles won and the gaps of the battles we've lost in the pieces of the sand.

  But if I say this be where I end, I would if my watch could tell such of a time.
So till then I would not give up till everything of MY need is MiNe.

Spray paint the canvas of the night sky;
the red reflections in my eyes,
silently swallows up a thought,
to save a piece of mind.

So in my waking dream, I navigate
this intricate minefield of love’s emotions,
that all become so probable,
after calling you mine.

And you'd ask me if I see
myself in that mirror

—no,
I see only what a world has done
has labelled me, called me, rated me
expected of me, thought less of me

...unfortunately for both,
                     it's not me!

Beautiful ugly reflection –
slipping into the depths of your heartbreak;
Do you still tally your breaths – gasping for air!
At times, we drift so far from the warmth of home,
a cosmic wonder; yet the cosmos cradles the remnants
of extinguished stars.

Would you light a cigarette – to mask the fierce truths
of your spirit; those weary hands still possess a gentle
caress.

A handshake fraught with shaky bonds – bond to your
insecurities; anchoring you in a realm of perpetual self-doubt.

                   You are worth infinitely more, my mirrored self.

Mirror wise,
Blind man's reflection locked in the eyes.
So many secrets to keep, but they're mostly lies.

Oops to say I really didn't care of myself to be,
Something of a saint in people's sight. But that's not what you actually see.

Gaze at my mirror reflection, seeing something different.
Shooting every shot I had in life, getting tired of how I missed it.

Oops to say I told you so,
But I'm not the friendly type all season. Thought you should know.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
I've got troubling thoughts naming me wise by every call.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Your cracks can't hide the facts of shortcomings being so tall.

Mirror effect,
Don't see the doubt in the reverse image. Not scared to regret.
Something I constantly expect.

A life in a mirror; so many things you
wish you could control
Of how far that it seems; if life was a mirror
could we have the ability to control all the reflections'
that we see?

In the depths of night, a scent of blood hangs heavy in the air,
as if the clouds themselves had wept pools of blood, for their
sorrows in the form of rain.

I gently brushed away tears from a shard of ancient, stained
glass, lost in contemplation of the countless destinations we
could have been, our adventures stretching infinitely like the
vastness of the sea.

Yet, amidst the myriad of dreams we dared to envision,
the glass whispered a profound truth:

We are only as broken as the reflections we allow our
external mirrors to see.