Born into life, without questions, born to a period not knowing what it is, life laid out. Stirred and mixed with stronger overtones of melancholy. Ambition from mundane, a desire to fit in, to be noticed. Born smiling. Twinge.

There’s fear and loathing,

influence measured, as much of success.

Blink and you’ll see the same,

for when open a pair of eyes up. Smile and it will be reflected. Cry, it won’t.

Undefined vanity.

Land of freedom.

Breathless soaking, mist on glass. Violet haze. Fashion as veils. Trends of distractions. Attention, a threatening murmur. Contemplation of reckless emotions. Upturning awareness. Affection wanted. Castle. Inviting gentle poetry from poets that lived hard lives.

Bondage to one's inner-self. Spades.

How to make redemption on being born? Making an amends,

born into life, opening fire, slightly jaded, it’s not what anyone thought it is.

Charming like gold. Bleak inside. Placing random value. Moonlit dreams. Rustling silk wishes, isolation presence, always alone, gleaming out, as to say that creation is more than anyone could possibly bear. Weighing one down.

The fullness of decaying hope, producing perfume to poems.

Crossing over the duration of one’s natural life. Attempting to pardon the bitterness inside. Though it clings to my soul with dear life, yawning it causes, laying to normal daily

living,

freightful

torrent

fragile

in

common

ways.

Threading malady. Originality always on cue to be tempting, at times to feed, an incredible lust. Everything becomes vivid and heightened, sounds louder, heat rose, perception becomes acute. Avoids eye contact in hope that one’s own inner-life is not noticed. People know the face, barely remember the name.

Innovation is in the aroma,

master of one.

Fate and destiny seems to want to marry.

Maybe it’s a shift of culture, viewing glass, a new dogma.

Noticing the afflictions of life, attaching not to limitations,

the clarity of mind can destroy much of the illusions that seem to float by,

where the youth seems to vanish,

regret builds.

Monotonous now. A fling. Poetry played over jazz.

Burning underneath desire, hanging over, like a bending flower head. A fear strong. Being unsure, questioning, pushing people away, an whole affair, an entire loss.

Collecting old memories of joyus particular moments.

Making attempts to hold and feel a content life, dripping into something, one expected or wanted. Just mercy now.

Voyage

Starvation

Servitude

Burning

Sun

Cold moon

Gathering

Around

A

Fallen

Star

Chanting

For

Romance

Like

The

Kind

Of

Romance

All

Those

Poets

Seem

To

Know

In

Intimate

Ways

Craving against to revolt against the life born into. Knowing at the back of one’s mind, one has

to revolt against the hesitation that one produces.

A manuscript to another tragedy. Expressions of fears, played out on stage. A grandeur melodramatic gestures. Saturating over earth. Cry more? Why for?

There's fortune in freedom. Effort is a must. Courage is trust with oneself. Horror inside. To do, it’s like its been tried before. A certain manner in one's own grace. Self-made beauty. Alluring. Everyone wanted to know, everyone wanted to, always pushed away.

Flashing eyes, widened and still,

mouth closed, clenching firsts. Cursing missed opportunities. Alone at home, safe and yet failing.

       Fascinated with Utopia. Calling out to poets.

       Quenching the fire.

        Asking for passion that flares and continue to progress.

Argue with self-worth.

Entangline with self doubt.

Staying mute.

Do i dare recite poetry to thee? Breaking out on impulse that keeps motivating.or just continue to loathe over unfulfilled wishes. Tomented to be locked in my own stillness.

For I’ve heard the garden of eden contained paradise.

Truth in beauty, it’s beauty because it holds truth.