perfect poise
between diction
imagery and tone
measured rhythms
and true fine feelings
that fall like soft rain
to mirror humans
in tender moments
and coarse grim cameos
of things best forgotten
things nuanced and bitter
this vast field of experience
is the business of poetry
the art of aptness
the art of compactness
and incredible depths
leading to damp squibs
we search nevertheless
for unique form and content
that exercise in futility
till at last we rest from our labours
and we understand at last
poetry like life is a bitter-sweet  illusion

Fit to be tied to a ligand gated receptor,
mind you,
right there, in the area below our own aptness
to think and do at once, thus we think without
knowing we are

thinking
things,

new and old, linked by local nodes arranging ions,
in channels previously lacking bridged interchanges.

Instant one past then,
we re think,
if we remain, persisting at or on some certain point,
may we not, mainly almost completely, be self aware?

The gaps insulating our separate selves, as we imagine,
thoughts outside our heads do remain connected rectly
ortho dexterous… sinister off, right on. Switch,

transcendence, sit zazen intently making bits of this
peace.
Inner, breathing conscience, knowing used, to pay
yourself, first

love, neighborly behave, have love as for your self.

I, the boss mind, I, the chooser of destiny from now,
I, ego and id and all, me, you must acknowledge,
I was here when you arrived, in an acknowledged,

innocense, not ignoring a curio juxtaposed, sup-
posed to prompt a why from your own self, why
am I not kind to me.
I am no better than I can imagine proving, to myself.

I must convince me, you are merely watching me be,
in a mind state seeping from a spring I cleaned,
to channel a flow a bit thicker than a seeping…

Sit with me a minute,
measure the brevity,
leave be the reason, I wished to feel you there.
Knowing how I love you, determines the worth
of my own love.

Is that my name on your tongue?
***** I'm the smoke up in your lungs!
Got that 1930s aptness
crazy off that ****** madness.
These players whining, got emphysema
acting like ******* is the remedy--I
I got rhymes to define my time
ain't nobody expecting
a lyrical mastermind.
But I don't owe you **** and
I ain't got **** to prove
stand toe-to-toe with me
*****, I never lose.
I ain't going to beg for your approval
it's this confidence that keeps me youthful.

How long do you reckon
it'll take you to read a book
say, of a thousand pages?

Well, it took the intellectual
six months to read, thinking
and considering every page and idea;
the writer took about five months
taking in the aptness and beauty
of each phrase and word;
the teacher took three months,
the librarian two and so did the reviewer -
*but the student,  the student did it in just one night,
just the night before the final exams...

Dare the dainty
All in eaves, a dance of we've
Sour regards for a knowing heed, the eclectic key
Wavering in the air, to tell a story of finality

Salt, dust and whatever else
Rhymes with damnation, the tows of veracity
Become like lucky butterflies, the solution in bells
To worth and occur, with a certain mighty...

Sounds of music, to die for
Through the hollow of sunshine we find so warm
The completion of a single thought for avidity, so sore
Has the curiosity of chances, and the decency, only more

Should we shoulder a pathetic distance, from the nerve?
Or is causes guidance, to a realm of liberty ensconced
We woke, and walked to the notion adding, a due friend
With seasons of come, to light the way to sits, of around...

About now
The tale has become ours for a looking have, and the moment gave
Mirrors, seldom fears and a host to what nears
The romance of aptness, for a circle of deem, that has it to save...

The most elegantly glimpsed aptness of blue,
So colorfully unique in it's intending,
Of the brightest pastels found inside the Louvre,
In the depth of the sky in it's ever mending.

A cascading stain above as the dawn breaks,
A changing shade away from night brings a warming tone,
The vastness of profundity only seen in Great lakes,  
These dripping streams of patiences are not yet overblown.

A color we bleed when we need a companion,
The tint we see in oceans at the eye's length,
And fills the sky on the most stunning day in the Grand Canyon,
The deepest blues are seen in weakness and less in strength.

A chagrining emotional torrent coursing to a commotion,
Water flies above as airy type materialization,
Seeing spirits crushed by the weight of a winter squall Atlantic ocean.
But reveals a illusive blue when in a frozen glaciation,

The most beautiful blue is so intrinsic,
Like the inner part of the flame burning insistent,
But with far more life that is so simplistic,
Whereas my life without blue is nonexistent.

Maybe not...
     He did bought me bouquet of roses,
     Or a box of expensive, assorted chocolates;
     I know I just need a piece of flower,
     He picked from the ground when we were together.

Maybe not...
     He did drove me on our way home,
     Every night when we thought every place was our throne;
     He was my king and I was his queen,
     In our world full of sweetness and beam.

Maybe not...
     He did so much effort for me,
     I knew it was and will always be him;
     Those sincere, dazzling eyes looking at me,
     With a promise that I will always daydream.

Maybe not...**
     We were always in aptness and peace,
     On days when we thought our liaison would split;
     Anger was spilling right out of our mouths,
     But still end up together among of all crowds.

I've always marveled
at the aptness inherent
in the trivial meaning-making
which coined the term 'four-twenty'.
It speaks to the nature of the stuff.

Here's to 4:20, 4/20, 4.20,
We mark it a holiday In Praise of Idleness.

Who could have known the antics
of a handful of high schoolers
in San Rafael, California
should be the origin of this celebration
of cannabis culture.

For the first time I am comfortable. I do not worry. This will not leave.

When I talk about loving you it is not in the way that we taught to feel it conventionally. Or, I should say that others do? I don’t think that that way is real. I think that is how others comfort themselves, with trickery, because they have been told that that is what it is. So when I use that word, it is because I have no better one in which to say how I feel in a short sentiment.

Love is what all the literature, art, music and poetry speak of, but not in the way it seems. It is just an attempt to portray something that is unportrayable, after all why would so many write or create on it. It is just their expressions of something that they try to reconcile.

And people, they see this portrayal and they think that they understand it’s meaning, and they allude that they experience it. I don’t think they do, they don’t understand it, for them it is merely a finite thing with conventionally imposed limitations and it’s not free in any sense of the word. For them it costs. That is not love. But they believe it so, and that is not their faults. They settle in this. And the swells might come and go, but they never remain without a degree of effort. That is not what I mean when I use the word love. There should be no active effort involved.

I have loved before, in that sense and it never holds me past a while. The lack of realness behind it doesn't elude me for too long. But, I find myself happy to believe in the idea for a while at least. Like a vacation away from me. Yet, I always have to return home to myself and it has always been the most lonely journey back to the homestead where there is only me waiting for me. Although, it is always nice to vacation with someone for a small while, if only for the small moments where I am able to forget that I am alone. And, I have always resented that I can see it and others cannot even notice how alone they are here. Almost as though they are naturally obligated to feel that they are not. I find myself equally happy for them that they cannot see it. Happy so much that the realisation and guilt of pretending does never bare to touch them.

And this, it doesn't have suitable words and so I end up using the only one I can find that at the very least has a single gram of aptness for purpose. Yet, it remains to fall so very short and in so many ways only serves to misrepresent what I really feel about you, about us, about this. This is what I mean when I say that I have never loved this honestly, and that is because I never truly have. And that is the only thing I can define this as, because it fails to fit into anything and nothing comes close. So it must be? I have no other to compare it to and I am so blind. And I wish I was able to explain it to you so you would understand the truth in it with me.

I don’t want you to be fuzzy in it, or worry that you have guilt in mistreating me because you feel that you cannot mirror it.

Believe me when I tell you that my affections are not misplaced by any degree. I think that you do. In your way. Perfectly. And if we keep trying to understand this within our definitions from convention we never will be able too. I don’t think we are meant to even.

When you talk to me (I mean in any exchange) it is like I can touch you and in anyone I could talk to them and never be able to, not really. I look at them and it is like everything is at the front and if I look passed that there is nothing behind it. I’m not saying that they are less. Just that I cannot see, because for me there is nothing else to see. It’s a blankness that I find uncomfortable. Since there is nothing behind it, there is nothing for me to get close to, and with you, I am so close I feel like I can just reach a fraction to touch you.

I am not on vacation with you, I am still at home.

You said I was a stray, you might have been right. But now, I am not a stray. I have a pack, I am not alone, and I am free to come and go as I choose.

I couldn't have asked for this.

It is effortless.

It doesn't have gravity, well.

I don’t think I would have conceived that it existed.

I would have laughed at the idea, and called it foolish.

I don’t have any fear in it, because I know in the depths of me that it will remain, and that like you said, if there is others, it will lull but it will not change, it will always be there after. My love is the idea of that closeness, and being completely at peace with that, and these words still fail me.

But I just know that my soul sings for it.

And I am so glad for you existing.

Writing a poem

You can read hundreds of books by famous writer
and learn of their stories how to write.
You can read other poets work and learn the craft
of poetry, there are so many styles, in the end
you can sit down and write a perfect poem and
it will be admired for its style and perfection,
yet by doing so, it is still not a proper poem
because the poet is hiding his emotion and honesty
in aptness that is a barrier to the truth
For without the integrity and passion the poem
will be a perfectly executed poem, it may win laurels
and win in a competition, but it is still words that
will remain so as a demonstration of the art of writing
but it will never be a poem.

Throwing the prosthesis, he jumped for
numericals, refusing to expand,
walk with father of sorrow
the revolutionary.

He wanted to talk as an equal
in interpretation of truth about death
and God, the new incumbent
of faith.

An aptness to spill the blood on
your face, of some recent slaughter,
as a witness of dying for peace,
as soothing law of nature.

He wears the fabric of inspiration:
the city and streets are empty
weaving the welts of pain,
for nothing.

She is some super duper being
who can see all the invisible faults
that could possibly pierce her kid;
The solitary soul, who has the aptness to
cover up all the darkest shades
and expose all the the brightest shades
for her kid’s sake;
How like a mermaid gets to the land
just to meet her love,
Mom wakes up every single day
To give love and protection to her kid
And to get love from her kid
So let’s prioritise mom who priorities only you!

-Thanakarshnni