"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.

Feelings of ecstasy
fills up an empty lonely room,
His words, "I want to fill/feel myself in you"

Intimacy; into admitting those desires not of public ear
A request to touch her as if it were their very last;
a sort of lust rush, as he pulls her near

And from the sight of red eyes, a few hours
before, when they had passionately cried
Falling into sight; a blush picture of her
cheeks painted in cherry red
Giving into their feelings; all unquestioned
reasons to be sharing a bed,—

Tonight,
could be a long night of bodies being next
to each other, making up tomorrow's memory
And if it hurts to bite, her response,
"nothing hurts better of what pleasures me"

...mmmh, it's all but basic reality,
yet feels so much like a fantasy
Playing into future events in their heads
of a present affair. A make up type of ***
to forget about old history

                                 Awaiting their ******.

Why do you play the role of a side,
when our love could be the main event?
It always feels like I'm just making love next to you,
And we both know it's not right,
like a clandestine rendezvous with a *******.
Why do I shower you with gifts,
when you barely acknowledge my existence,
sharing my deepest secrets with you, only for them
to be your farewell gift?

I cleanse my vision,
trying to rid myself of your haunting image.
I'm not a swimmer, yet I found pleasure
in drowning in the depths of your thigh's, last night.

Steaming my spectacles;
the only way to capture your breath,
we shared a few smoky moments, and I noticed
your capacity for holding things in,
in those puffy cheeks of yours.
We ventured in and out of your home,
and weaving in and out of their sheets,
There was a lot we could've discussed after,
but nature always called you away.

I tend to prattle when I'm at ease,
you slept on my arm, muffling the torrent of my words,
my wit often coming to my rescue as something so handy.

Regrettably, we only truly connect at the peak of a ******,
and whether I decide if I enjoy the simplicity of that,
This melancholic sensation in my heart,
it's an entirely different climate.

The deep crimson wine simmers beneath the weight of your tears,  
your timid gaze fleeing from the shadows of your fears.  
How can we ever measure the depths of your anxieties,  
as they pull you toward destinations that seem to beckon endlessly?  

Underneath our shared facade, time rushes like a fleeting breeze—  
our days slip away, morphing into weeks,  
while your knees buckle under the weight of memories,  
the fractures of your bones now echoing the passage of years;  
some days shine brightly, while others cast a dull shadow.  

I often picture you from that last summer—  
the way you carried your father's care, the way
of your mother’s confidence radiated through you;  
how beautifully they intertwined
I reminisce about the home we once shared,  
our dreams adrift in the currents of our minds,  
fragile skins brushing against one another,  
as scars bleed into one another.  

I found a heart, one I never truly possessed,  
and I was overjoyed—yet now it feels like a distant memory,  
all those moments now lost to time;  
I wish I had clung to them more tightly.

Running up the time; while running away
from all my crazy thoughts.
How much time would it take to get to heaven,
climbing up a clock tower? A lot!

And if I fall,
do I hit the ground, or will I soar?

As I swore not to waste anymore time,
but I broke that promise; wasting more time in
the above line. But fine!

I guess I'll be like time:
not a lot in the best moments.
Rushing myself with all of the time in the world;
but never to hold it. Or own it!

A thousand clock towers;
still feels like I never have enough time.

All my words are like acoustic strings; all of their emotions
black & white like piano keys. It's love & pain intertwined
My passions all leak at a metronome pace—then suddenly,
it feels like a nosebleed. Being both beautiful & painful.
As I am an email for love, sent with all my attachments.
Like music, it gets all too tedious— as these aren’t poems,
not really— just signatures, kinships inked in flesh-toned
vaults, keen to sound like truth.

I'm vying in so many dry pastures, lost in this unsatisfied
fullness— an emptiness echoing into emptiness. Still, there’s
no shame in surrender; to put everything on the line—
hanging out in the sun. To dry, wrinkle, & fade.

As my pride wasn’t just another persona, somewhere on
the clothesline. I’ve been worn thin by time; knocked down
by life with a clothesline. But still I rise, with my neck back
on the line. Destined to shine, but to you, dearest child…
these things take time.

Jumping clouds on empty air.
Feet above a ground that holds me down. You all happy to join,  we'll all meet there.
Though I was never born with wings to fly,
My dreams could carry me, so at least I could try.
Dancing like my feet instantly knew all the moves to that song,
I have a thousand steps stuck beneath my toes. I still have some time to walk along.

Living like we had no tomorrow. How fun.
Today could be my last day, so I'll live it like it's exactly that one.

Hold hands with peace and love, couldn't we do this long before.
Happiness is kissing my lips. I'm still wishing for more.
But let's be dancing like all our problems are never,
Though not being much of the genius, I can still be quite clever.

Look brightly at the skies, all those clouds. My space in them, cloud by cloud.
If I scream right now to feel happy, excuse me, this shall be loud.

All those clouds, all so many.

down to my last dollar for the weekend;
chances of falling in love in a club – I can’t pay for
those feelings. crying thoughts about what it means
to be in love, with delicate watercolours. paint me as
a feeling, as pruning a rose falling piece by piece into
that pit of love

for love is so deep when it first trips you off
your feet, the sounds of it sound slow and easy in my ear –
but like club music, the dj plays a slow song, then suddenly
blares the mood with music to bleed out my ear drums

am I… bleeding out this love, coming up
with a gift of sweet nothings in chocolate box?

      love is all sparks, but any spark can be made\\
         but that real fire in your heart, comes finding
                                                        your right match.

Loaded gun; with the glares of girls shooting
their shot. X marks the spot of where she aimed for
my heart.

It hurts to love, it hurt me plenty in the fall,
I was in the air; floating, waiting for what they say
it means to be in love.

Slowtown, right around the corner of the rush
of my feelings. A crush is a rock you carry on the strength
of wishful thinking, and desire.

Overcrowded in the room of sickly ones,
wickedly sickened by a love sickness. Love sticks to the air,
Untamed by the consequences it must carry.

Yet you only see what you what, but still a love
sick fool is the reason for it being so blind.

Do you still as a youth glance at a potential lover,
or does maturity see a future?

Now how do I put it into words,
Explaining a feeling I've never felt before,
A little piece of love; making me yearn for more,
A richly deserved taste of it's brewing love,
Inside of my cup; sometimes in a long mug,
The steam tickles my top lip hairs, I stir, and stir,
Sip, sip, careful not to get burned.

That little *** is boiling over the stove,
It whistles proudly; of my warm heart for my love.

Pulling the draw; grabbing a spoon, three teaspoons
of sugar, a full spoon of coffee, and the hot water I pour.
Oh! Looks like it's a bit to bitter, so let's grab the sugar
and add one more.

Warm blanket, warm thoughts, a warm paper,
and pen, then my warm words.

Warmth. Warmth is all I can describe of my
love in words.

empty cup that fills my mind – down to earth man
sips the ground; a scent that erodes all other scents
swirling steam, a bittersweet dream – fruitful energy
given by the swirl of it’s heat; as my tongue ripens
to this flavour in my cup

the days are always a rush; a cup of coffee sort of helps
me slow it all down – thrown seeds to grow in my heart,
rejoicing in the love I have for my morning drink. reaping
for more, coffee seeds planted in the coffee machine.

cos some days I work myself like a machine – I need to
oil the machine, with the fuel from that coffee bean
the goosebumps rise on my skin, I’m in love with this
              coffee bean

Dip my feet-
In a bag full of coffee beans;
To get the feeling of-
The ground in between my toes.

A vast cosmos swirls within my cup its hue reminiscent of
rich earth – this is how I savour the celestial dance of stars that
illuminate my dawn. The birds are chirping; their incessant
calls grating to someone still caught in the clutches of sleep,
an hour past their awakening.

I crave the warm embrace of those first sips, the aroma of
a universe enveloping my senses – those dulled nerve endings
yearning for that electric jolt to awaken my body, sounds ringing
sharp like a sudden jolt to the ear, quickly grounding me in
the present. My eyes, keen as a blade, slice through the haze of
distraction, honing in on clarity.

As I speak, relishing that fleeting moment of joy, the kettle
whistles its urgent call – a signal for the morning coffee I so
desperately seek.

The rustic wood exudes an oak essence,
imparting feelings reminiscent of timber
running through the depths of
a contemplative mind.

The morning wood embodies a
hardness akin to the tenacity of roots
growing defiantly out of solid mountain
rock—a force to be reckoned with.
She savors a taste that mingles with a sense
of triumph, a bittersweet victory vividly
displayed through a masked countenance.

Her prowess is demonstrated by
splitting rocks effortlessly with
the razor-sharp edges of her teeth,
wielding a tongue that doubles as a
deft weapon, teasing and tasting with
calculated precision. Each fiber of the pink
flower's stem is thoroughly imbued with flavor,
with a cascade of nectar streaming down
his throat, carrying forth every inspired
thought on a voyage of fervent creativity.

Reflecting on the past reveals remnants
of everything that has been left behind,
a realm where he fearlessly surmounts
challenges from behind the scenes.

Amidst disciplined actions, he occasionally
employs stern measures, firm and
unwavering. In his possession is a
substantial jumbo jet, soaring high into
the skies, causing her eyes to involuntarily
roll back in sheer awe, a testament to the
impressive magnitude of his influence.

The days pass by in their own magnificence —
that brilliance of a radiant sun, illuminating
all around with its natural intensity and warmth.
But fortunes now stand as a beacon of their unparalleled
richness, so akin to perfect health, while hearts wear
their emotions openly on their sleeves, displaying an
unwavering untrue transparency that desires to still
captivate the world.

Deep within the hidden recesses of their beings lies a
dream, delicately tucked under the protective shelter of
their collarbones, waiting to blossom and unfurl into reality.
Connections to the past linger like ties to neckties
well-hidden beneath the surface, silently influencing
present actions and future paths.

Despite the passage of time, some still find themselves
immersed in past troubles, carrying a heavy burden symbolized
by the chip on their shoulder, gradually accumulating into a
weighty packet as age advances. With each passing year, the
resistance to healing grows stronger, manifesting as a cold
shoulder turned towards the prospect of finding solace
and restoration. Cold souls under the warmth of the Sun.

"But let me tune you the live about life's simulation,
that assimilates one's worth. Poetry's code isn't of ones
and zeroes, but of all lines and words"
Says the wit of a coloured oan wanting to chuff the girls

It's all about the honeys, and maybe some sweet
success of hustling for a little extra money

Taking a stand on every stanza, I grew up to different standards
Unlike the hood rapper clutching the 48 hammer,
I was taught in my hood how to hold a 48 spanner
I have my odds in odes; every heavy breath in each
coma—not so common
Given the stereotype of dealing and robbing
To steal your stereo if the right type,
and best to drive with caution

A dark skinned coloured
fitting in with the blacks by appearance
Accents do tend to change ears intently hearing
Whites think I'm that way out of a private school fashion
But I did at times hang out with the wrong crowd,
at times on weekends smoking **** and relaxing

And yes I'm actually coloured; to those of you asking
Hit you with a "hey what's up, what's happening"
Don't mind me asking questions with this sort of coloured accent
"Yoo what's the story," we start our conversations
in the morning. A different kind of breed Godsent

I don't force how I speak
But if it disturbs the peace
I'll change my tone of speech
And find solace in writing another poetry piece

                                            @the Coloured poet

She has her highs,
I have most of my blue
While all of my messages are read,
no matter what I say, I can barely see much
love out of my purple eye's hue.

Time is golden,
still I tend to **** most of it nowadays
While death is black; my envy is always
present of the green someone makes,
—maybe I'd **** to be famous one day.

My chest feels burdensome,
and too heavy for me to cough.
As I put an end to myself with scotch,
as nothing would sit well with me like a
darker brown spot on an already brown couch.

Blue, red, purple,
Gold, black, green,
Scotch and brown
—seems I'm all of these colours going around.

Walking along the ocean: my mind was imaginary, swimming
in passions again. My dreams became companions in my
loneliest nights—a closest friend.

The colours of time were a painted clear picture; the black
and white meaning of life written all in scripture.
I sang praises with rocks, mountains, and every living creature—hoping they would comfort me again.

I was dreaming of the end, it was such a dark picture.
In the same darkness before the beginning, I wondered if I
was alive, or close to my death.

Sinking into an ocean of tears, walking along nothingness
hoping not to slip. Trying to keep track of all of my past
steps, spending fashionable time. I was fashionably late.
Wearing down my heart, of the evil I've done—I woke up early
this morning to repent.

These voices were chasing, but I chose not to run. They passed me
over in one quicken rush. And I thought if was saved by the
colour of Love.

Or was it the white rising flag of mery upon my sinking ship.
I can't tell you what it was, but I could say it was peace—I was
just lost in a world of Colours & Dreams.

I touch pieces of Heaven every time that I sleep.

Wild at heart, pretty woman at it's will to tame.
Don't take that to shame,
But perhaps taking from this conversation your name.

Turned the age of eighteen once before thinking I'm the man,
Looking for a piece of love from a girl who's just a fan.

Turned the age of nineteen thinking I grew a little wiser.
But the time had my eye to deceive. Life can be a liar.

Now at twenty waiting for wisdom to reach my feet
Hoping wise not to have those similar mistakes on repeat.

So perhaps as I speak to you, think me childish
Like living on a life of latest fashion trends to seem stylish.

But right now it's my coming of age,
Growing to be the man I am.
Starting my own life story on a fresh page,
Coming to be a True man.

Life has its many high notes –
a song of misery that works on itself,
It’s its own company, inviting anyone
to the party – misery always invites company

But the song of a friend’s love
isn’t so loud – it’s soft, reassuring,
something to count on, to help you recall
your worth – even if all you need is their company.

A claim you possess;
we’re possessions, battling for one last touch- our
love on the battlefield; the gore of it, engulfs you as
if you were drowning; sinking deeper into your
emotions. Our hearts relapsed into their silence, a
fathomless ocean- of us holding our breathes each
time we kiss.

We were so tired of loving with no results,
so much so, that the very first time we kissed
it all, it was all too much to comprehend.

It's quite concerning,
this place I find myself am at.
Take a deep breath, but O'Lord I hope it doesn't stench.
I'm a spoiled mood inside my heart, feeling like a brat.

It's quite concerning,
where I've come to be but never really see what's in front of me.
Probably closing my eyes way too much to try to keep on dreaming.
While kicking the world right off my plot for too much scheming.

It's quite concerning,
how I have my wings, but don't know how yet to fly.
Living on the kind of words that feed my dreams so I don't quickly die.

Probably losing my focus staring straight so long at a crooked world,
That makes me feel so dead inside like my own funeral.

And it's that concerning I'm too emotional that I don't know when to cry,
Nor knowing if I should keep my composure when wishing someone I miss already goodbye.

Though am I qualified of being the right person,
Cause sometimes everything of me is gone so fast, I'm all that's left.
And I choose to be lesser of the swearing type, but **** it I can't help without the cursing.

And it's rather concerning, so very much concerning.
And I don't know what's there to fix inside of me when I don't know what's really working.

This blind man is too busy gazing at this empty wall
I tried to tell the deaf man next door, but you were to busy listening to soundless beats to hear me call.
The druggie in me took five imagery pills to **** the buzz
My brain was in some kind of blitz from drowning in shadowless trees, counting wheels on motionless cars.

Condensed in an empty space of just  more fullness
Cutting in a straight line of this circling square, trying to find it's cruelness.
Speeding too fast in a not so slow lane
Young old boys killing time and stress, still sounding all the same.
Cover up your face from way behind
Fact that factor up and tell yourself what you may  find.

Pour a glass into a straight shot
Don't let the bartender  make me taste any of that, stuff is way too **** hot.

Condensed shadows but we living in the light
Shutting my eyes shut, but I haven't lost any of you out of my sight.
I gave the whole world a low high five
She still yet to give me back  that response, but she better hurry up because I filled an empty pool  with dreams, now ready to dive.

Condescending,
I know of which isn't ending
A better version of previous self,
superior for owning up to my self wealth
To some it's much frustrating,
I do apologise for being so condescending.

I go against I ,
an ability to be held back by only I,
A type of guy who can't deny,
his much a snack to an apple of the eye.
To those finding it overspending,
I do apologise for being so condescending.

I'm superior,
in a higher rank of self quality
Who I am, is who I am glad to be,
be as I am, an own personal fan
Being proud to call myself the man.
I know for some seems offending,
I do apologise for being so condescending.

I like to like myself,
and loving my own
Surely it's does show,
the light of me which glows.
Like a fire that must burn,
a spark of me, can give you a turn.

Time seems impending,
I have less of it to be pretending
Might feel myself ascending,
but rather I'm not here contending
I just apologise for being so condescending.

his eyes are what graze his meal,
while he pokes at it with a fork, like a child

she asks in a sweet voice, if there’s
anything on his mind…

with a full plate, leftovers of his love
for her, and an empty pride - he finally asks
her

“did you also tell him you love him, right
after I watch you both kiss each other”

splat!

her spoon crushes pieces of food on her plate,
my love, I swear to you, it was only ONE TIME

he smiles, but in a sombre voice he replies,
“funny, with such a passionate kiss I watched,

I’m sure the both of you had a lot of practice”

Confidence in check,
well I'm at least to expect,
To give those around a piece of my best.

But how so? I'm a piece of depressed.
Bleeding out my heart, and beating out my chest.

It's been too long, since I've had a word,
a little hint in the letters I pen.
But then again,
I'm completely clucked as like a hen. Hanging with the lions in the depths of a den.

Still confidence in check,
like the pride beating upon my chest.
What did you expect?
I take everything as if what the heck.

Living in the moment,
till I'm out lived by the fewer moments that follow.

So really what the heck?
Rather be the wild card amongst the deck,
black sheep amongst the wool of white,
least then fall into opportunity's sight.

With a little confidence in check,
doing all the little of best.
Then again what did they expect?

Ain't my confidence in check?

—in all of my ways, I'm not ashamed to
call your name. But so shameful of me to only
say a prayer when things don't go my way. Echoing
the final phrase, "in Jesus name" hoping everything
magically becomes okay.

Seems when I'm in trouble, I only choose to pray
a spiritual prayer that day. And I'll go back to sinning
in about two days.

But let me rephrase, "God loves you, and cares for you"
whether I'm telling it to the crowd, or secretly trying to
remind myself. "Don't envy another," says an envious
colleague, after he congratulations them in an overexaggerating
tone. But when I'm home alone; it's either myself tearing myself
with tears, until my face is torn. Or punching the wall, then
after using the other hand to cope with a little ****.

Actually it's a lot—a lot of the times I'm lost in empty
picture screens, till a quick satisfaction is found. Then after
washing the sins off, while staring in the mirror, and not looking
so proud. As the realism comes to light, as the realist sees their
misdeeds way past the dark.

Like a pick-up truck, hauling heavy loads of these burdens.
But we like to pretend our backs don't snack while forcing
to look like an always good person. In third person, we don't
see all the places you're hurting. But it takes first person, for I
to realise I'm inwardly cursing of those new struggles soon
to worsen.

To oppose another, being the face I choose during the day;
opposing my loving father. And in it feeling ashamed, and so
afraid to call His name; only when things aren't looking too okay.

But here's a glass to all CC's, raise your voice if you know you've
been that type of way. Let me keep you in my prayers; perhaps
you'll learn to speak honestly by tomorrow, than with a mouth of contradicting yesterdays.

                                                 ...don't worry children,
                                your father still hears your prayer!

Let's be honest, life is moving way too slow don't you wish you could fast forward it,
I would pay the universe to speed it's motion, but gosh ****** I can't avoid it.
Life of ups and downs without a sound,
But I still haven't hit the ground.
Let's go ride shotgun in the backseat just to get a clearer view of the world we live.
And if the enemy cut my left hand down, would I still have the right to go and give.

"Hey me, how you doing,"

hey future me, I'm feeling clueless,
using less of my time, and feeling a bit useless

"Well, I wish I could tell you that it all gets better,
But even in the successes you and I will have
You're still stuck on hoping you've done enough"

that kind of *****, cos yesterday I was just telling our
past self, we still haven't done enough
and I'm feeling really down, but always trying to keep up
in playing this bluff

"Really life is just a constant game of us playing cards,
My advice to you; put down the cards, and learn to play chess"

sorry, that statement doesn't make any sense,
and above all, it probably went over my head

"Life is about making the right moves,
Lining your goals, and trying to think way ahead"

highly unlikely; let's not pretend

"Hence the word, trying;
You won't get it right all of the time.
But all of the time we have, is another reason to just try,
And every mistake is a lesson we can't ignore or never mind
For the never in our mind, is the reason to all of our insights
being so blind"

can you show me these lessons,

"No, because they wouldn't be the lessons
You'd hold onto, without any of the experience
As the best teacher is experience; still the hardest teacher,
But she'd treasure a good listener, and treat you so precious
My lessons to share, would be to stay brave, stay who you are,
And speak all of your truths of what has hurt/made who you are,
As all of those daily confessions

hey future self,

"Yes"

you really ****, because you always have to be so right,

"And me being right,
Is to show how to be right with our life"

                             sigh!

In the realm of my chamber, where the walls stand tall and proud, a crack resides, a testament to the passage of time. Each morn I awaken to its presence, my gaze instinctively drawn to its jagged lines, as if it holds a secret waiting to be unraveled. Curiosity blooms in my chest, like an ephemeral flower, its petals seeking to understand the start and end of this enigmatic fracture. Yet, despite my relentless pondering, its origin remains shrouded in ambiguity, evading the grasp of my eager mind.

Venturing beyond the boundaries of my chamber, I traverse the intricate labyrinth of rooms that exist in this grand tapestry of my abode. And lo and behold, that very crack that has captivated my attention seems to follow me, lurking in the hidden corners and unassuming intersections. Its presence, though subtle, is undeniable, an unspoken confidant whispering ancient stories and untold secrets. Returning to the sanctuary of my own haven, I find the crack more defined than ever, etched into the walls like a mark of permanence. Unyielding, unchanging, it stands as a constant reminder of its presence within the depths of my consciousness.

Oh, how I've longed to mend it, to bridge the gaping divide and restore harmony to the once-seamless surface. I've tirelessly searched for the perfect mortar and the right tools, but alas, it persists, taunting me like a mischievous specter, forever out of reach. This crack, with its resilient nature, seems to possess a life of its own, defying all attempts at erasure. It has become a fixture of my sight, a permanent resident in my waking hours and a steadfast companion throughout the moments between dusk and dawn.

But, dear listener, let me share with you a truth that lies dormant within the depths of my soul, hidden beneath the dusty layers of reality. This crack, you see, is not what it appears to be. It exists not in the physical walls that surround me, but within the intangible realm of dreams. It is a fracture of thoughts, a crevice in my mind that transcends the confines of the tangible world. This crack, oh, how much it speaks of the human experience, the complexities and contradictions that shape our very essence. It is the crack that embodies the intangibility of our emotions, the fractures that define our individual journeys.

So, as I gaze upon this crack, ever-present and unwavering, I find solace in its inexplicable existence.

Reflective tears— but none fall.
Glass-stained eyes, holding back
a flood that forgot how to break.
The walls pit inward— tightening
like regret, closing in like the hole
in my heart.

Hurt me again— my mind almost
begs for it; not for the pain—but
for the proof I still feel.
Cracked knuckles answer what
cracked thoughts can't say.
A fractured mental frame
held together by restraint.

I want to cry, but as I reach for the
memory of it, the tears don’t come—
Just the hollow ache of forgetting
how to let go in that way.
It be like that some days...

All the stars are falling down.
Make a wish —
maybe we’ll fall in love
before they hit the ground.
And if it fails, I guess we’re
just crashing down.

                                     To shot my shot, and try to be
                                     your shooting star —
                                     aimed so high,
                                     but I was falling too fast
                                     at the sight of your brown eyes,
                                     soft as cosmic dust.

I’m the dusk, you’re the sun —
and if we make love
to make a son,
will that light save us,
or are we still just crashing down?

                            Until then - hold me in the silence
                            between the boom and the burn —
                            where gravity forgets us,
                            and stars don’t return.

And if we’re meant to fall,
then let it be together —
two sparks in the dark,
pretending we’re forever.

                          Even if we burn out
                          before the dawn,
                          at least we lit the sky while
                          we were on.

Gnawing thoughts;
Biting beats on brain'
Yawning dots'
Sizing them both insane.

                 Or perhaps plain:

His head hurts'
At their single home;
She wears only long skirts.

                      Darling;

Do we surpass our shys;
Being too afraid'
To show our insides?

Shy as a tall mountain'
Hiding behind clouds:
Seems for this first,
We both have a lot to climb.

And in this life, we:
Live, we regret, we learn –
Lessons from regret

And for bodies, we are:
Skins, touch, ecstasies in –
Two hearts that touch

Finally, we are all to:
Love, give breath, have *** –
To expect, another breath

              We all create.

Speaking in tongues in accordance of
      The audience, prior the winds of your voice
To be spoken in my ear of that accordion
      Accordingly so of the bellows—the chorus of
Love in that mellow tone of a Holy orchestra
      A symphony of the Bible; all revealing many mysteries
As I constantly read more of you

All the text setting a picture of your context
my joy is content: not like a performance
      Of this world's contest

Psalms 121:1‭-‬2 NIV
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
    where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.

So as the top would say;
I'd lift my eyes higher than the mountains
    To you Lord—
Of where my help comes from everyday

So I pray: to be humbled by your grace—
    non dependent on man to guarantee the will
Of your way
    In Jesus name I pray, Amen.

There are two kinds of creatures in this life;

the most attractive creature, is a man mindful of your feelings:
considerate of your emotions, making you feel truly valued,
and respected— who listens attentively to your thoughts,
and concerns but also responds with genuine care, and
understanding.

And the dumbest creature, is a man who instead thinks
with his second brain: not much thought needed there.

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!

Ten toes down. Ten fingers clinging to
the cross — but even I can admit: some
unanswered prayers leave me feeling  
so cross.

Where both the heart and mind
start to whisper —"maybe we’ve already
been crossed out from receiving blessings,"
even after giving ourselves to that same cross.

The soul isn’t an X to unconditional love —
it still holds on, trembling, but my human
nature keeps crossing out its own heart.
Unwilling to believe in the redemption that
bled for it, too caught in its own voice
to hear anything softer.

Pride’s the loudest preacher in the room.
It tells me, "you deserve it all" — as long as it's
everything I want and nothing I have to wait
for; even when I try to even the odds, I’m
reminded: human nature is always at odds
with itself.

Crowd noise — silent tones said under my breath, as my faith’s
HP is beeping so loud, that I’ve learned to ignore it. I’m semi-
crawled, half-walking toward a maze of unknowns, given just
enough truth to fold and tuck inside the mind.

But I guess it’s the advice to mind your step… especially when
overstepping your reach, as the hand that lives in poverty often
feels cut short — and life itself is even shorter. You exercise
your right to live, but the final test is only passed at your passing.
And right now, I’m growing into my own powers, but even I can
get overpowered by my pride — refracted slightly; border-jumping
into lives I was never really invited into. An alien, indeed.

See me hovering like a UFO above heads that don’t know me, but
still see me appear in their atmosphere. And I don’t fully enjoy this
alienation… and sometimes I wish I could just land and be human —
and to actually feel grounded on this Earth, so that the atmosphere
of my prayers don’t feel so tight. As the atmosphere of a prayer feels tighter when the pain of your struggles, wraps its hands around
your ribs — a tightened breath, and even tighter belief.

When it gets so hard to say thanks when you’re hurting, harder
to say Amen when you're unsure if the line still connects. As the
mind feels so crowded — a room full of voices, echoing opinions,
guilt, hope, and noise. And sometimes I wonder if the silence in
between prayers, becomes the answer to help me feel better with
it all.

the taste of your smile
in this crowded room
hearts of ocean—I am blue
party next door, shut down by appearance
so real, resilience—I caught myself before
catching feelings. to have a seal on the upper
interior of my heart; high up to the ceiling

this crush is a mile
a crushing journey over you
unwisely along time—tragic fool
cleanse my teary eyes in a memory rinse
a con, convince me not to be sore
a press thumb to thump down a number
in love with the right person, but she hangs
with the worst of people dealing