They often judge the poet
On the words that he thread
Some readers formed his silhouette
In each poetry that they've read

Judge him not at one piece, else you'll be upset
Because his pen can laughed then can bled
In every second his mind will reset
Truly, you'll never know what's inside his head

In the universe of paper and quill
He can create truth within lies
He can put soul to nonliving
Some of his creations will never die

Every poesy made was alive
Talked of its own tongue
It will definitely survive
Even the poet was long gone



9/23/2015

Mysterious Aries

God is just a metaphor
for something we're all searching for.
Her god loves, his god fights,
your god kept me up at night. (Just like his mother Mary)
Subjective gods, subjection lies.
                        I see through his selective eyes.

I don't speak to people who say nothin at all.
Voices laced with grace, no sincerity just *****.

To me sleep is sacred
          a time where we all die.
                         I didn't feel His presence,
                                               I knew only mine.

Sometimes the things I say
don't match up with
what's in my head.
It's kinda like
how our blood is blue
but when we bleed it's red.

Its only a figment of my misery,
Truth distorted and twisted to match my horrible mood.
I'm aware of the unreality behind the notion, but its weight compressess my bones,
Its too heavy for me to remain motionless.
Any act in the manner I have in mind would be self destructive,
But im willing to scar myself just to lighten the load.
Even if its only for a moment,
Believe me, I will have my rest.

Sometimes death hurts less than  life

Readem and weep
The comment section
Full of genuine critique
And just so much hate
Is this what people are
When no is looking
Is someone I like
Writing these and then
Pretending they never would
Is this just the danger
Of no one being accountable.