Pain is long and deep, it broadens itself, at self-will, running wild

     motivating any artist to dream, poets dream long and before acting with

grandeur and in youth, there’s nothing but dreams,

                                     as lust doesn’t cost a thing until all that youth drys up

and the ability to stop dreaming isn’t felt, just aging

to achieve harmony in this life, one must struggle for years, especially in poetry, where they can all articulate love, like the Tenor or the Cellist, over composed symphonies. And the Nympho’s praise them all.

                              my heart is in my hand, because it’s pierced

                              those who have content, are the ones who

                              dared to live in the first place and I’m still hung

                              up on you, because those who’ve lived, seem

                              to have experienced love, my heart is caught

                              providing a helping hand to write any poem.

     People had made love without poetry, because lust is easier.

                             And when awareness kicks in, it will be too late and poets join time to mock them with heavy laughter.

                 I grow tired of waiting, fatigued after actions with efforts of affection

Life goes on

No-one likes the lovers lost in love, because it reminds them,

of what they don’t have, wondering if the love is wild and roaring

or if it took their youth to tame. No one likes the lovers lost

in love, because it can devalue any romantic piece, those

lovers in erotic acts, intimately fusing their souls together,

getting to know the ecstasy of illumination and addicted to

sparking awakening in each other. For no one likes anyone

in love, for their souls are free and without void and despair,

so they shun those lovers out, in return those lovers build

a world of their own, forgetting the earth for the rest of

humanity, never to fit in again. Can you love a smile? Can

you love a glance? Holding hands? Would you tame beauty?

For without love, the law means nothing and the poets will

turn out as serial killers. For no one likes people being truly

in love, because it reminds them what’s without.

                         I can read any poem, for such things as love, is not written,

  only expressed in actions, whispered in the ears of night,

                                spoken by the mouths, who’ve been to the horizon

                                and back.

Only in love, where it can strip anyone down to the nude, bearing to the world, all their faults, sins, mistakes and regrets, revealing all their secrets and transcend into a saint. A Muse for the world. I don’t know about you, to what I think about those first kisses between yourself and your lover, is conversation  between Angels, closing lips, each other’s breathes felt lightly pressed upon skin, and the Angels sing when the lips are closed, holding hands and finally the delicate souls can meet and begins to feel safe for the first time.

            And everyday sounds, turn into love songs, that we’ve grown to accustom

 to listen to, without knowing their meaning. Living now, like life ends at the end of the day, you can blame fate for falling in love or you could just go out and experience love. It’s a place that we all ache to go, twinge at the sight of it, love involves the energy of any supernova that births beauty on site, creating memories for poets, adding

charm to this present, parenting the future, dragging things up from the heart, when we dared not to and finally for the first time, you shrug your shoulders and let go.

                           As for anyone telling that you have to work for love.

                           Slap them as hard as you can. Than recommend them

                           a good lawyer and a young lover for their spouse.