I am not my own strength – nor am I my own words
I am not the sum of silver, or rich as the world,
Nor even close to a sliver of gold.

I am not my future – or any better than my own past
I am all of my mistakes made in the present,
And all of the things, hoping to come to pass
Nowhere near a love that endures without question –
Nor the calm; being a life of many, many scars.

I am the quiet battles, that tears praise my triumphs,
The stillness in inner storms, battling emotional riots –
Marvel of flesh, fragile code; built of miracle science
Living in society’s endless bias, where the little
You hope to give, is the hope that will be trampled
Beneath the heels of Giants.

A faith that’s ALWAYS under intense heat
And so many pressures; pressed and refined,
I emerge as a Beautiful Diamond.

You try to see everything beautiful in this world,
you've got roses in your eyes,— you're pretty much blind.
Those two pretty eyes, rosey cheeks look like the petals of your blushing love, — I'd like you to be my pretty bride.

The soft tears
not of sky
but of
a flower'
will to
survive

      Tears do echo;

Tear' sorrows,
joys, pains
and hope
no matter
when,
crying because
I'm still
here and
          
          Pretty alive.

I'm just a man
fighting to be a man
I know my words are soft,
my hands, and skin too
Would you regard me a gentleman

I have a pretty smile
but always so shy to smile
I'm attracted by warm cuddles,
hugs, and kisses too
Would you call me a weird guy

I love the scent of flowers
distracted by pretty flowers
There's sweet perfumes in my room,
clothes, and berry lotion too
Would you think as me among cowards

I'm pretty much, the ironic pretty guy.

Fires rest under skin;
Blessed a kiss of Sun

In the dark;
I am light. ..

Bright & gentle flower;
Hand-picked by God

                   In the dark;
                   I am life.

Sorrows, I've carried;
but only for a time

             In the dark;
             But still I survive

Pretty Orange,
my colour is-
Clean & well polished.

                               I flourish. ..

Stuck in my mind,
on top of my head,
Even when the love is dead,
it still haunts me that you're gone.

The spray painted kisses,
are tattoos on my skin.
I have your smile by memory,
still tasting you in my dreams.

Praising your body,
as my tongue's favourite song.

Under the shade cool of love,
kissing under a tree,
away from the sun.
All that's left is that purple flower.

It's searching for water,
so thirsty and dry.
Bending it's will to the light,
hoping not to die.

A lonely, pretty, purple flower.

My pretty toy soldiers marching along,
Conquer lands. Tear down walls and streets with drums and a song.

By the corner of love, lining my troops to conquer my feelings.
Living way too long under the rest of a tree I'm caught up in shady dealings.

Never came to fight but we're in a war.
Blades hitting on blades.  Honestly blood shed was the most I saw.

The many lost minds but not ideas.
Loads of troubling days but lesser fears.
And as a child my best way to make any sense of life were the roles of my toys.
I grew up too fast to never have fun with the other boys.

Worked my heart out now it's camping outside.
I conquer many lands but often so not on grounds of my hate and pride.

Pretty toy soldiers, it's a child's set to play.
The troops gunned down by the short numbers. But living long enough to fight for another day.

My troops, my army, such is this war.
But it's not at it's end for this be the first tour.

Many of these tears passing by
They ain't too shy
Just wishing you goodbye.

Slept well on moonlight kisses
Awoke upon rays of day
Building upon the morning on a few pieces.

Guess I'm feeling a little better today.

Cries so long wishing me near
Like Death's cold kiss, I'd rather lose my own lips.
For the ticking time close to sorrow is that close to fear.

Take a load of life's bitter drink in a couple of her sips.

Life's gunning down on me with hollow bullets
Shells of her heavy shotgun
Till she's fulfilled on my despair but she won't be the fullest.

Guessing still, if I threw myself to the world who would surely catch me
A stylish life but I can't speak that fancy.

Her pretty tears, rivers of waters trying to drown me
Fighting waves of chaos trying my best to at least break free.

Pretty weeper, are you not my pretty little weeper.

Pretty weeper, pretty little weeper
Life don't be a another deceiver.

Vultures fill my skies, preying on me.
Don't pray patience, already have enough of that.
Behind the disguise of the vultures in my skies, I'm only seeing black.

Preying birds while I don't pray much for mercy.
Having the weight of the world on my shoulders. Don't wait along for me.

For right now I face against myself and the many demons trying to hurt me.

And we both take to this heart of mine as work of art,
No wonder why we both prey for it's prize.
But to us both we're on fallen grounds, both hoping to rise.

Preying thoughts while praying on Love to rescue me.
Vultures in the air tonight. Wasn't it already dark enough.

But I hope no man to follow in these footsteps, better yet don't follow me.
Not looking for the pain inside of me to be the honesty of my mind, just looking out for Love.

So don't prey on me.

Some live for the moment,
I won't be in a moment of motionless
Some hope for the right moment,
I'll make right to build that moment
And any beautiful moment, is all but a second,
So I'd never second guess myself,
Asking how fast a moment is gone

Principles, principles that are in charge of my life,
Be an ethical person, still be good despite your obvious bad
Living a somewhat basic life; basic truths that you'd never forget

             Do it all, and never give a moment's rest.

Whispers of tree leaves,
shaking fibres of the very skin. A breeze
creeping through all of the wall cracks.
Breath heavy not of stink, but cold breath;
a weighing heart of ice deep in my chest.

Sin in my bones, (from birth) weakness of
the flesh. Time is plenty on my hands.
Intent on the mind, procrastination under breath.

"I'll do it all tomorrow"

I recalled a bird's song as a morning lullaby,
rooster crow echoes of less time left in a dream.
Diminutive time; clocks going full circle several times.

"Fine I'll do it in the afternoon"

The Eve sets on the day,
as to kiss her Adam, as the first sun.
But it's the last light of dusk coming into play,
wasted by the nothing of planning to do something.

"Snap! Where did the day go"

Back to the start of the end, into the new
beginning of procrastination.

"I'll definitely do it tomorrow"


                                                     ­ Yeah right.

Tall glass towers; on mountains of golden lakes.
An island of ten million dreams; blinded by the lights
of life. Heaven is a time like no other, as nothing has
an end. But all of it's residents have met their end.

Phased by the breath of tens of labours; the works of my
hands. I built glass memories, so fragile of remembering a
tragic past. All that is wasted; wasting away in thoughts.
****** as my hairs in the morning. Some on my neck, of
having their rest on my pillowcases.

A heavy throat, and it's husky voice. Mmh mmh; clearing it
to speak into a day. This morning is a timeless piece of whisky;
strong as the first swallow of belief.

Do I...

believe of any goodness ahead of me for today? A chance of better wealth to add some weight to a wallet? Meeting my potential love; as they're waiting out there?

But when, and how far are all of these things?

Who are the fools to know; all of the wisdom of ancestors
of where they should go? My forefathers have been at this place before. I do suppose; that I am progresses living words.

Onwards, forward, towards, heading, advances, going to
the places of what progress asks of me to go.

If I could write out my pain,
it would be in loud words.
A sad song of anthem,
a Verse and a Poetic Prose.

The hunger for success; we might as well scrape the bottom of the bowl,—And if we're all itching to be recognised, we might as well have a skin infection. Battling all of our demons, but its more of a battle to battle another temptation.

My mind and I are post mates, with these ideas we're trying to deliver to the world on the postal,
Still it might close us off, a world that's mostly your enemy, can't really escape it,—so we keep the enemy closer.
Always trying to sound like I've got some filling advice, with every word as food for thought, and the chip on my shoulder.
But their hungry eyes bite down more than they minds can swallow, then serve revenge back on a dish always colder.

But I guess I'm the fool for being so full on being foolish; you could give a world a hint of your love,—But it will always be a world living so clueless. As we all try to live a glass lifestyle, for
everyone to see how we're living.
Making such fragile homes for our children, glass walls for boundaries: please tell them not to throw stones around where we're living.
Still these are the prose to suppose; smelling the intentions of evil doers,— I'm on the nose,— Of acting like everything I do, is everything everybody knows. Making friends with the name sayers who never remember your name; trading thoughts and quotes to butter up people with this modern day barter trade.

The only relation we all have, is we all love to hate; negativity is what we feed on,— positivity is just a bit of salt we shake on top
of hate on this plate, so it easily goes down. And ten days of money going up, is the process of you having ten toes down. But we'll probably have to go around in a chaotic world, to finally feel renowned.

Life needed to come
with a bulletproof vest,
Couple stitches and blasters,
really anything to protect my chest.

Gave you a taste of magic,
Sticks and stones in love—so beautifully tragic.
I’d give my world to be around your planet,
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?
A taste of line stuck in your jaw,
Decorating yourself—there’s a little decore.
I’m your centre piece in place of more,
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

All cuts and lip burns,
I was the very last—of every first,
Stars in perfect alignment; but all by force,
I was lost for words, biting my tongue; but not tasting hurt.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?
It’s a waste being young,
But adulthood is so painful—really no fun,
And I’ll be insecure knowing how not to make a girl ***,
Coming around to my place, and accidents of making a son.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

The high life highlights,
Bite size feelings, drinks of nightlife—so high!
Still scared of heights, and not having the right size,
As the killing factor of any man’s pride.
Why won’t it fit right, it doesn’t feel right, or quiet tight.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

Being around the block,
Waking up to the rooster—tickling ****.
“Where are my socks,“ letting borrow tops,
While topping someone off the top in slob,
Twisting your emotions, as you twisting the ****.
Just a tip cob—ain’t nothing wrong till it repeats tomorrow,
And there’s nothing more left sweet of that fleshy flower.
Was there anything else to do, anything else to prove!?

Just two curious people trying to prove they're good at ***,
Just an excuse to tidy up themselves after being a mess.
                                              They’re both just a mess!

I worry about my family
before myself.
My friends before myself,
loved ones before myself.
Anybody really before myself,
and don't even worry
About myself.

So when I pray for provision,
I really need it,
Vision in troubling times,
hope I see it,
Stretch out my faith,
hope I believe it.
While acting a constant sinner,
hope I'm forgiven.

Times are troubling,
as is this life.
Hope seems plummeting,
as is this life.
Man is wondering,
as is his life.

So in prayers like this,
I hopefully ask to receive.
During my life like this,
I'm hoping the Lord still gives.

Provisions for those around
I love,  I only do request.
As we're down on the little left,
provisions from you is what
We need next.

Tended by him,
a sherpard of my me.
My human nature asks for want,
but he rather gives me what I need.

An open field he places as lamb,
led through flowing chaos to still waters of the land.
For very much,
the restoration I know,
Will always be lesser than the one he has given my soul.

Righteousness is the path I've been led,
for with grace,
Comes with him for his name's sake,
I've been led.

And amongst my walk through the shadows of death,
evil I neither have fear.
My fear of only Him instead.
For as he is with me,
he points the ways of right.
I'm not left behind,
for he lights my direction as a staff of light.

Enemies wish to feast upon my flesh,
still I table before them,
Unaffraid, as anointing flows down my head.

My cup never runs to be dry,
oil overflowing past my very eyes.

Goodness and mercy does follow,
in all the nights and many days how then do I cower.
The walls of His house,
are a place of the Lord forever.
For like my words,
I ask of him to always hear my prayer.

"Lord. Hear me, the voice of child,
tamed by the ways of you.  
Once before a Wolf of the wild,
he has made me beloved,
One who cares of his own,
the hand that fed me, The starved.

I am as a babe in his arms,
embraced by love.

Tensions that live rent free in your head
-I guess it's not a tenant

Still the kind of people saving up old money;
we don't have much for our early pension
So please don't be late, especially when you're
working yourself to death

I've a few times picked a bone with you,
for working all of those skeleton hours
Chasing a dream day by day,
and hopefully the night's result, is the money following

Life *****, and of course you can't spit the taste,
as our youth is something we have to swallow
And drink a little harsh truth to wash it all down

Don't forget to be social,
talking to peers about so and so
Who we know, and who pretend to not know,
but it's really stuck on your nose; as the scent of intentions

I do get your intentions, still listen to me intensively;
kiss your wife hello, more than goodbye
Be there for the family, the kids might forget to call you dad,
but more of a daily service provider- that's really sad

                                    ...P.s, a note to self

life, has had its few licks of me – to envelop me in its envelope;
a sad message to myself. but don’t we all wish we were perfect
messages from God, a bit heaven sent? to the people who worry
what people say about them – their weight of words; drowning
more in people’s words, then any piece of writing in the Word

p.s, a well written letter to myself – I’ve been trying to line up
most of my better memories in alphabetic form; while holding
a solitary feather. I got stuck at the letter A, to list all of my
achievements

hoping to steal time like a stolen kiss; conscious thoughts that
escape my lips – speaking of me as someone you’d truly miss.
as I sign a message of my life in the ink of my fallen tears
       trying to stick onto the side of hope, as a sticky note!

Cherished memories of us, on this old Spotify playlist;
my heart is overwhelmed with longing and lovesickness,
— a passion that seems to fall short in making me
any more patient.

I find myself completely consumed by that intoxicating
madness of an undesirable love; constantly lost into its
utmost and unforgiving potential;
...picturing me as your devoted psychopath, an
unyielding presence in the maze-like corridors of
a mind, and it's undetermined cycle path.
Ready to cycle back, and drown out a heart's love
in a cycle bath. Washing away your inner demon 's past;
while washing your back.

My heart is an eager match,  
striving to ignite a fiery blaze of affection,
and I caught your spark by your bright smile,
as I'd fight for this love when you and I are a match.

Then again...

I could have been crazy enough to imagine it all in my head.

I've been writing as an adolescent, as a teen filled
with adult lessons. Somewhat a mix of all my confessions,
and a touch of  my deepest depressions.
I use them all as a weapon, to **** away all thoughts
of suicide. My escape is in the words I write. The pictures I
try to describe, in all the lows between my little highs.

I question a lot about life—like why the talented famous
supposedly have to die so early. To have never aged poorly;
they only respect you now out of paying respect for your death.
To pretend they were your biggest fan, or closest friend.

Why publications ask me for fees they know I can never afford,
to invest in your royalties, and never gave a chance to your
dreams worth. I've battling all my addictions, trying to fill
myself with empty pieces. Seeing girls for only kisses,
considering getting paid for being involved with a mistress.
Just to afford to start up my business, to help those in their poverty.
But obviously that's not a possibility, but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

I've had my fill of gluttony, in pleasing my flesh.
In the thresh of cutting away my chances of being blessed.
Pretty am a mess—while putting on my face of the best, and
keeping a little pride on my chest. I still don't know how to dance,
but I pretty much prance in my room before I write a poem.
Switch between writing a little more or riding my way into
watching a little ****.

I don't trust my morals, if they're not on a placement of their
foundations. Ethics are kind of shaky, if you spirit is out of
concentration. I'm seeking for good relations, but hate to be basic.
Or basically falling over a girl who's just hungry for money chasing.
And it's so frustrating, when the right one you rightly push off.  
And now it's just awkward for you both. I'm not to good with my
feelings around pretty girls.

But that's me I guess,
writing late hours when I should be in bed.
Acting as I if don't really care—so oftentimes rare.
A habit rabbit, that my eyes are a black hare. Self destructive,  
self distracting kind of traits. I'm in dire straits, Lord please
save me from psychotic ways.

I hope this isn't where I die today. After having the usual
psychotic break.

Telephone, telephone
I wrote a song for a girl
but it was just a poem

Her name was ringing
inside my head, but she loves
calling me her best friend
The only reason why
I chose to come to this event

Shisha sticks in rotation,
Russian roulette with smoke
Puffing long,
eyes red and bleeding tears;
trying not to cough and choke

Crowds of lungs made of hell;
black smoke, ashy rains and
little black stains on your soul...

All the purple flowers I've
seen, sort of relate to purple eyes
Cos my vision was obscene,
obscure, insecure, and vaguely pure

Still I had seen a pretty flower,
a flower that pretty much stole my
words. She had a bite to her:

  So till death do me part, to have and to hold
this pretty flower, pretty much came with thorns

Purple flower—
lonesome afterimage;
a fighter with a purple eye.

Sky's falling,
could you catch all the pieces?
Loads will fall,
but don't burden yourself with
Life's overload.

Even with knees shaking,
taking the weight of the world
Don't force it on yourself
to have your back breaking
Troubles always seem to follow
as you're heading in the right direction
On the other hand of it,
all that follows is left behind
Troubles won't be with us at the destination.

Take it like a train,
on this long railway of life
Learning to train your mind
on every piece of knowledge we gain
In a route of life
not always custom to follow a line.

Things go along in curves,
don't be hell bent to force them to go straight
The journey of it isn't as easy
walking out of it through a wide gate
Still you should walk into
things you worked for to deserve.

So when all seems
to be falling in pieces
Remember,
many pieces built-up your worth
Live it out without any a cost,
perhaps to all it could be purpose.

Oh, please tell me why I still care for the side of you that always
lets me down – my mind becomes your fence, picking at all of my
thoughts – each one a slat in a picket fence to surround your own
insecurities.

Tell me what lights are coming on, to keeping on pretending that
love still turns you on; have you truly spent the nights restlessly
trying to fall asleep in a **** pose, draped in nothing but a pyjama
thong?

You shed your clothes more readily than your skins, that could
unveil the core of your true self –  “this time, I am changing,” you
proclaim, yet what truly changes if you harbour such shame for
the loose parts of yourself, tell me what’s the point of looking for
change, if you don't want to fully change?

honeycomb lips,
swarms of bees on your tongue,
hives on your heart,
a Queen bee is your soul.

buzzing, buzzing, buzzing,

all in my ears,
now a taste of my tears,
straight after I got stung.

buzzing, buzzing, buzzing,

there she goes,
only protecting her sweet,
nectar is her love,
but I found myself allergic to bees.

buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

Black as an even fair, beautifully paid by the sun's kisses,
I marvel at the mesmerizing tone of your dark skin, akin to
a painting brought to life.

The way the sunlight caresses your complexion reveals a
radiance that is ethereal, as if the heavens themselves have
blessed you with their touch. It is as if the universe conspired
to create a masterpiece, blending the stark contrast of night and
day, merging darkness and light into a harmonious symphony
of beauty.

As the evening sun graces you with its warm embrace, casting
a gentle glow upon your features, it illuminates the hidden
depths within you. Within the lovely twirls of your hair, I see
a multitude of joyous moments interlaced, each strand a testament
to the ebbs and flows of life.

They seem to dance and twinkle, reflecting the light of
your spirit and the resilience that carries you forward.
It is in these majestic tresses that I find solace, a sanctuary where
dreams and aspirations intertwine, creating a symphony of desires.

I swear, with the utmost sincerity and conviction, by the
promises I make to myself and to you, that I shall forever long
for something as rare and precious as you are. Like a cherished
gem, hidden amidst the depths of our motherland's embrace,
you represent the culmination of generations of strength and
resilience. You are the embodiment of the legacy of our ancestors,
who fought tirelessly to reclaim their voices and redefine their existence.
By cherishing you, I honor their sacrifices, carrying their stories
and their bravery within my heart.

The tenderness and care that reside within the depths of my being
compel me to cherish and nurture you with every breath I take.
Your presence evokes a sense of awe and wonder, for you are an extraordinary creation, a queen among queens.
Your regality shines forth in every interaction, radiating grace
and dignity. In my devotion to you, I find purpose and meaning,
a profound connection that transcends time and space.

Loving a black queen runs deep within my soul, permeating
every aspect of my being. It is a love that defies boundaries
and conventions, embracing the fullness of who you are.
In loving a black queen, I celebrate not only the physical beauty
that graces your form but also the strength that flows through
your veins. It is a love that embraces the complexities and
intricacies of your journey, appreciating the layers that
shape your identity.

Together, we create a tapestry of love and understanding,
woven with threads of compassion and resilience.
And in this love, we find the infinite possibilities that lie
within our unity.

Do I even know myself,
asks the joke
Really does a joke know
it's a joke
In the reality of life.
Or will it just laugh it off,
wondering if they're laughing at or with them.

I can't help the way I feel when I’m searching for love in your
eyes –I am powerless against the tide of emotions that swell
within me, staring at the warmth of love reflected in your gaze.

Speak to me, dear heart- do you not feel the same electric pulse
that ignites when our spirits intertwine? I am at a loss for words to
convey the tempest of anguish that rages within; will you kindle
the flames of our connection, transforming mere embers into a
blazing fire?

For when you whisper, "I love you," it seems to exist only in the
realm of my dreams. Am I too desperate, too lost in my own
fantasies? Would you truly love me? Is this mere infatuation, or
could it blossom into something profound?

                      Oh, how I hate these relentless inquiries about love.

I'm up, but don't feel awake,
world has me broke,
but I won't let it break.

At times I don't live my worth,
but I'll never forget my place
Stick to my guns,
and aim my ideas straight.

I'm guided by faith,
hopes of it working out in the end
For this life to be alive,
have to stop pretending to be dead.

A simple quest. Journey of life till the very end.

Stay driven in life,
and watch out for potholes
Play your role in life,
make sure there aren't any plot holes
Reach your targets in life,
and know where to aim your goals.

As I lay my head upon your tender cheeks,
they become my comforting cushions,
cradling my mind as I drift into sleep.

The melodies of soothing lullabies
resonate deeply within my weary eyes,
carrying me into the promise of a new day.
In the intimate embrace between us,
a damp and intimate space, I find myself
irresistibly drawn to the alluring scent of your essence.

It beckons me, enticing me
to lose myself in the depths of your gaze,
to become completely consumed by the beauty
that lies within you.

As talk is always cheap,
even with the most expensive words
And I could never sum up enough of the
words, to tell you all of your worth.

                So sort of speak, let's just quietly cuddle.

Feels like a Friday in between the sheets
catch a thrill with a dose of sleeping pills;
I took too much that it was all a dream
And I'd be so annoyed if you ever called me boo,
I'd ghost you in a second, and haunt you with despair,
to feel wet and thirsty as a bottle of water by the side of your bed
As I play unique to love, but true love is quite rare!

Under tears of-
          rain;  
We're   all         the
        same.

No matter of
                    where
    you
           came. ..

We all take life-
       day by
                  day;
Sit,
  wait  and
                      pray. ..

What      stops 
                       God;
  doing  a    
 ­                miracle
       today?  

Sit,    
             wait,
and  
                      pray.

         Enjoy the-
kissing tears
                    of the
                        
                             Rain.

the chitter chatter,
of the day,

are conversations of-
sun and rain,

that greeted the ground of,
this splendid rainy day.

Filled in a glass of fancy
rising occasion rising to the skies
A glass of wine
smooth & etiquette, a maturity of fine.

Raise a glass to Heavens above
clearing my throat to make a speech
Gather around all to hear of my preach

A lot of the life you had gave
wasn't all but your own hand
Life is saved, but not to be spent out later

So don't let the greatest thing you've said
only be layed out onto the world while
you're laying on death's bed.

You let only be seen
of your every good deed
But turn it over by acting so mean.

Why though, is such a thing?

Learn to stop playing pretend
it's only an act of cowardice
Leaving a bad example to the descendants
wondering what a true hero is.

Your best example should be early told
stop waiting on young age
to do something for yourself
Age will always be a number,
but we all grow old.

Life feels almost like a test
exercise your rights in being you
And the result is finding much needed rest.

You'll pray on your feet
fall sometimes, but stand again
Still there's worth in all of these things
we go through our weaknesses but emerge
afterwards as stronger human beings.

So raise a glass to that & make a cheers

"To be, or not to be" (William Shakespeare from Hamlet)
As it's been asked. I question the choice to choose or
Not to choose, in the fitting affairs of what would
You do in someone else's shoes (Walking their mile)

Place yourself in another;
The life of a sister or a brother. Racial barriers:
What are they, but one's blind hatred for another colour?
If you lived the life they do, how would their
Discrimination leave an affect on you?
When the same of the world, isn't the same in your
Sphere,– a harsh word said publicly neither sheds a tear.
But you identify yourself in the identity of what
You've been told; in a world where the new is just
A reincarnation of an old.

I guess,
The hate of back then is just a new,
Coming back around all over again. On repeat:
The hurt on ourselves; repeated on children's grandchildren.
High expectations we've set get so taller and taller,
While the worth of ourselves gets so belittled by a former.

What's change with yesterday's chains,
Shame that replaces a familiar name;
Those who don't give a **** are ******
In a nation under your nose; vaguely it understands.
What do you stand for on the stands of your life,
And who do stand with,– be it your God, your family
Your friends, a husband or a wife?

Be not kind in just for appearance and status.
Trade good from the bad given, the love you have
To dilute the hate. "I know they hate us,
But it was never the hate that created us"

It was love...

So to be, or not to be: Do you be the not
Of what they want be,– or rather not to be,
Of all the world's faults, that is the question.

Wayward thoughts, I think far ahead of myself. Stuck in my ways of a procrastinating thought, at least in the times I don’t know what to do.
Seems like there’s a lot of pressure nowadays. Alas with my careless
ways; of not caring at all for myself. Involved in the opinions of others, likely more than I listen to facts.

Sigh! Every piece I write feels like a sorrowful love letter to my past
self. That child would never sleep peacefully; knowing what future he
has to wake up to. But I need that younger me to keep on dreaming, for me to have something to believe in, (to hope in ) at these critical
moments.

But what about the future self? Do I even have the strength to bite on
my nerves; to remind him of current events? Writing in a diary I’ll
forget about in the coming years. Whether he becomes a success or
not, how long do I have to wait for the answer?

Longer than the patience I hold in my hands. Time fades away like a pair of jeans, worn out by the wearing anxiety of life. A button missing, with the threads sticking out. I've stuck out plenty, but few of the times that put me at an advantage. Foreign are my lips; by a tongue speaking blessings, that it feels like an unfamiliar language.

The pain never ends, but moves onto another. To change face, but still the first face you'll see in the morning. So perhaps the only thing I'll say to my past, and future self is, "I'm sorry"

A face of one good expression,
tastes of deception; covers depression
A life of tags; no mentions
not mention a passive aggressive

Beat up, won't give up
the Sun's feet up, after kicking my ****
Double t; tedious tip toeing
But my mistake it was three
like the three seconds I forget to breathe

...exhale heavily
one hell of a life, hoping he dies heavenly
This task of living feels a little heavy; not nearly
as being blinded by time trying to see clearly

'Oh but that was just me in third person
third verse, standing on that stanza
But yes I can sir, by the fourth try;
nurturing, sensitive, compassionate, I'm a cancer

              ...oh wow, this felt a bit random

Chase emotions,
Fishing out on love.

I'm hooked.
Placed orders on feelings by the corner store of my heart that's fully
booked.

Spend the worth of time making due within hours.
Pretty girls wanting to keep in my pocket don't come that easily by buying them pretty flowers.

Learnt the lesson too well.

Tell you what was in the few minutes won't be what is
So if you hear me paying on dues for life, I'll take my time to pay the fees.

And people's opinions won't matter if they don't stick
For we all can't afford to buy glue on the daily
Or spend the time digging on memories within thoughts to pick.

So I'll be captain of the course my heart travels

Riding waves of emotions.

Flipping through the best moments of life through the channels.

Held down to my word by gravity.

What will keep me sane is sometimes my lost sanity.

Like randomness I make from guessing thoughts
They'll comfort the empty pain I felt from fully treated hurts.

A Dog chasing it's tail, pain will inspire me that much to continue on the chase.
I may find the memories in the thoughts of sound

Showing something hidden beneath a smile on face.
But just don't think me falling before I've hit the ground.

~profits of prophets
lining riches; a queue to fill
their pockets

spear head spirit
not so sharp as a liars tongue
words a knife, and the loudest
cocky tones just a blaring empty gun

you shoot for fun,
fun to shoot shots if the target hit
the blowback becomes being denied
                        ~he'd call her *****

that's rich,
not to hold onto the fact of a reach
but of which you regret a miss
to have not gained a miss, and *****
wet kiss. Wet are the eyes of calling it quits
freeing mind from criminal advances—acquit

but I could sound a little preachy
on fruits of the spirit; quite peachy
joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness,
faithfulness, self-control

to say you know, or no to the subject matter
of my poem. must of been on the nose; you smelt
the suppose in this prose

and I suppose that makes this the end of my
random poem

Who am I, but a vessel of past despair,
    With a tangled knot in my mind, aware,
    "Break free from the chains of depression's snare,
     Confess your truth, find solace in the air."
     But does this advice still hold its worth,
     When wielded as a weapon, causing hurt?

"The words from a pen, a mind's indulgence,
     A gateway to thoughts, seeking resurgence,
     Escaping the prison, a soul's penitentiary,"
     Said the one who loved fiercely, with intensity.
     Yet the voice of the voiceless, it seems,
     Falls on deaf ears, lost in a realm of dreams.

Misunderstood, they heard me wrong,
     "I wished to shed my identity, be strong,
      Not brave enough to change my hair's hue,
      Like my smiles, I alter, but never anew.
      Wearing a frown, they won't take me seriously,
      Even when I express my pain so clearly.

In moments of boredom, my words flow,
     But relationships have taught me to go,
     Through a board of scrutiny, every decision,
     As if love owed me, demanding precision.
     But this time, I'll confront it head-on,
     No wooden board, just justice to be won.

Success, a pinnacle that feels unwise,
     A light-bulb to illuminate my eyes,
     To see my reflection in a brighter light,
     But as pockets fill, judgment takes flight.
     Counting the screams at empty walls,
     Filling the void that my soul enthrals.
     No cries of woe echo louder than before,
     Two Forty-Four, the hour I silently implore.

Running with kids who only speaking subbic
Doing the worst of things with no care in public
Girls clutching stomachs, in their guts screaming they love it
To find the whole thing disgusting
I'm discussing all of my judgements
Still not relating with my cousins
And it's kind of scary how time feels
Tired of making mistakes on life's lonely wheel
Made up phases when every boy wanted fades
Singing about Compton, but never what we were raised
But our corrupt streets will eat your heart, and be grazed
And when you tried to be fresh, pretending to be cool in school
As wanting to break all of the rules, we know we never could
Never should—but it felt good knowing you were the dude
Thinking of how to impress girls, meant you being rude
But I must of learnt a lot
Really from all the things I never got

I just need to apply brakes to my heart
I just hope it doesn't break me apart

And as I'm growing older
I've got more warm remarks, with handshakes getting colder
The essence of confessions, all the time feeling restless
Not fitting in with the rest, and I would care less
So often careless, but let me learn from my youth
I've got glue in my shoes, stuck in place and dance moves
But I must of learnt a lot
Really from all the things I never got

I just need to apply brakes to my heart
I just hope it doesn't break me apart

tell me, what is the sound of a dying flower in my hands –
as it detaches from the bunch of blossoms and leaves?
the postman missed the message for me, that says,
“I’m heaven sent,”as I pictured myself a better man by
now - the mind draws, whatever aroma of heaven it dreams
of, and carries that detached scent

tell me there, Mr postman – did you grow a rose in your
pocket where I grew a small tree in my heart’s garden,
where falling leaves can be heard. if I could use words filled
with fire, I’d be a bonfire of poems burning at my creative
compost. post me on the wall of your memories, as a painting
of those falling leaves

as a darling would tell me I’m too worried about being
a leafless branch – hey there Mr postman, I finally have
the answer

the sound of crushed water from life, is just the sound
of its final tears – and I’ve heard the tears of that flower,
but it was really me crying about my own self - still being
more fragile.