The say being a reader is the greatest treasure.
What about being a writer ✍.
To have the power to create and destroy at your hands.
To write you must be knowledgeable and a committed reader.
To write you must have the gift.

~Mid July thoughts.

in my private conversations, so many
emiploy this phrase, arms on chest folded,
a whispery plaint, and I too am folded into
too pieces, as well, my understanding fulsome,
for the struggling is well familiar, I under stand
beneath you, arms upraised, holding your shaking,
throbbing, wistful hearty sighs, constant tumbling,
floor~falling, see rose petals of sighs, all quiet screams,
and
my weak remedy is urging you to express
with the skill, known in you possess, to give
it forth, give it out and let us love your burdens
shared, and thus the be the firmament of our ties…

selfishly, I plead that you stun us with the
insight inside, hopeless hoping you surrender
and share in the only way I know that expiates some,
the grief, some of pained shame, and for a momentary
gasping, allows us grasping you, through you poetry,
the value you can bring forth to others humanity,
helping us to make us a better~both, with written creating
sums far, far greater than the to~us whole…
nml

7:45AM
Sabbath
May 25
2024

Silver Beach, Shelter Island

No talking Yeet Yeet
They know


      Whooo
      Whoooo
       Whooooooooooo

Wasnt me!
RICK FLAIR
          
                               DRIP

You were enchanted by the mystery,
You thought it was love and pursued me.
Been excited to discover every part of me.
Touched me like a book, what an interesting story it could be.

I am just ordinary,
people might see me as an old book that could not be understood easily.
I am just nobody,
but you brought me up to life where my existence has been saved from a tragedy.

You have stolen my heart that made my feelings to ramble.
'T was confusing...
and for a moment, I never thought that this will cause me to slumber.
'T was frightening...
A nightmare when we became lovers.

We both made this story, a fairytale.
In the end, it's ourselves that we fail.
Fantasizing each word, trying to mend the aching wounds.
It's not the sword that cuts, but the lies that's ripping us 'till we hear the rhythm of the heart that pounds.

I have never lived my life through your expectations.
Still, we tried to chase everybody at their romantic phase,
while being deceived by our own illusions
As I turned the page, showing fears that I couldn't face.

I laughed when you told me that, alone, I can write it beautifully.
like the songs with a perfect melody.
You think that tearing me apart could turn into a perfect art,
Leaving me afraid and lonely.

I was left there, hanging.
In every page, horrible scenarios are ranging
I was left there hoping,
Just in case there still be a happy ending.

I have tried to quit writing
many times,
but I couldn't.
Even if I could,
I wouldn't.

I have been writing
since I was twelve.
Asking me to stop
is like asking me
to **** myself.

Three
chests heave-
in the dark,
Breathing throughout
Each exhale.
The soundscape
adopts
a sleepers tone;
As
the clock's
      Tick tock,
Counting each second;
Becomes infinite-
The midnight's
metronome
Insues...