the curious cat jumps the fence
game to chase after a butterfly –
to fill its stomach
       perhaps this is my view on love

while the old dog remains in the yard
chasing after its own tail –
hoping to bite onto success
       as this is my view on human regrets.

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.

In front of my eyes is a white ceiling, plain and smooth,
and I can hear my chest pounding.
I can feel my lungs breathing--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
Then there are tugging, swinging, running---
back and forth and back and forth.
Where did it come from?
I have no clue.
White ceiling, is it all you?

if I swallowed a piece of fire to light up these lungs, and spoke life
into another’s life with the fire in these words; how wonderful would
that be? even now as I am – the echo of bones waiting to grow old;
feeling like the silence of an empty channel in a car radio – my heart
is often static when it rubs against another; in these electrifying
feelings of love

and much like a tyre running a track – sometimes I need to find a
place to rest, to try and reinflate myself. my lips have become a
clutch, of knowing when to shift conversations when they start to feel
a bit too awkward for me. and my means of a first impression, is one
to impress well enough for them to say, “that’s a man who I deserve,”
yet ironically, I can sing how beautiful I am, feeling so ugly inside –
and hoping I never lose myself to myself

still, look at me, I am unique – such words I must speak for a piece of
peace; knowing that I’m sometimes torn, yet I wear the attire of my
heart. being distant in the humming silence, praying for a mindful
heart, to remember what’s it beating for. for even in the less of myself,
I was created, to be more.

…don't give an F to the world, as it will only play you out so flat. it's a
place where young men are taught from a tender age to think with a
D, as if that's the major key to success – we desperately need some
minor adjustments in all our mindset's metronome

life:

the stark black and white hues, like the keys on a piano, as
everyone tries to ascend their scale of freedom. so often, I find myself
pondering what melodies, the piano man in the sky composes as he
watches over us, his fingers dancing effortlessly across the celestial
keys – harmonies to echo through the universe

our heart’s compositions reflect a symphony of your own human
emotions, those blending notes of joy, sorrow, love, and hope – a
beautiful crescendo of one’s life journey. but we live as a fleeting
chord in the vast symphony of the cosmos, hoping to play each note
with delicate precision and purpose

the music within and around you, could guide you through the
harmonies and dissonances of life. fighting the silent chaos in your
head – or being the distracting sound of chaos from all your worries
                             this grand life piano.

You!?.*

WanT
        o         P
                   a   My
                   i                                          Well two bad,
                   n   Portrait                         I'm not real,
                   t                                           I am a Chemical
                                                        ­                    a
                                           ­                                 o        Fee(l) you seem
                                                            ­                t         To like to Get
                                                             ­               i                           o  
                                                                ­            c                          ThoUght
                  ­                                                                 ­                            p
im nobody who is you im a piece of glass in the ocean an unexpected regret you didnt want but now you have im the kind of thing you get in a goodie bag from a party you didnt want to go to but you still did an embodiment of every reason you doubt yourself on a daily basses im the one whom sits behind the screen not watching but watchin you thats the scary part of me that you arent quite ready to leave because who will watch you if im gone

purpose: for in the many parts of me, I know somewhere there
could be a perfect version of me – if only I wasn’t losing pieces
of myself so purposely. living past due the experience of full sleep;
ten thousand butterflies in the net of my body, to form a fluttering
soul.

heavy lead filled tears to melt in the soil – when I choose to cry, I
think of the rain for my emotions to better flow, catching my breath
on love, by that breeze of excitement. winded from chasing after the
dreams of it, and running further away from prior defeats – some still
follow me.

love asks me, to fight my battle; a lover would tell me, “be my
champion,” my own strength would remind me to be a little more
patient – my eyes would sting me, for finding a reason to be blinded
again. lastly these unclean hands would pretend to have never
touched a piece of sin though in the many pieces of myself, pieces
of myself have been followers of skin.
            so stands the message, sighed as a lover

there's one date I don't freaking celebrate
and even sort of hate
to perceive a certain day of a certain month
every year as a birthday?
frig it, no **** way; there is only one
such day, & mine is a lot behind
that date is just a bitter reminder, do not be blind
with every next year after an actual birthday
it's more & more just a "becoming old" day
that's to keep in mind
you, of course, are free to treat these lines
as some pessimistic whine
but don't think that thinking the way I do isn't right
as it isn't about "right/not right"
it's about point of view
after all, you have your own, don't you?

somewhere out in the world, somebody’s child is dying –
we all should be crying, but being miles apart, you right
now could be smiling – knowing not a thing

life is often tragedy; in other times it’s the happier times
to make us smile. we are a billion diamonds reflecting
each other lights – we hope to live, we all know we’ll
die, some hope for peace, still we fight within this life
to try and survive  

we do our best to dream, even when sleep has other plans
so for some, they re-enact the scenes from dreams to make
them seem real. though the past is gone, some of the memories
of it don’t make a retreat; some hope for peace, still we fight
within this life to try and survive  
                seems we’ve always been bred to fight.