With no new romance in life, where's the draw of inspiration? Let my soul be intricate to every word in each poem that I write, it’s not to play games with my own heart. But maybe it’s a matter of a indefinite amount of time. Diving into the deep of love, once it’s found, just to make up for loss of time. And loved intensely in all its raw form, new to me, because between the poem and the experience there’s missing links. To where it lays in lovers hands. Heartbeat finally connected. Smiles raised. Rain drops. Moon silver. Sun glory. In sleep, in dreams, in yearnings and wishing. Though it adds to my love, valuing you, it only disrupts me, slows me down, in it’s haunting taunts, for all I know, it’s your touches, kisses, scent, the culture, the arome that your immediate presence brings, muted silences, saying everything all at once and expressing thought, struggling to say everything, for all we end up saying ‘is that I love you so’. And any romantic art, whether it be music or poems, a single photo, film or painting, it will always lack something, perhaps everything and in sere accident. But it inspires to be under the spell of love, that it actually exists. Lover, for how addictive it is. But let them call us ‘lost wanderers’ in one another, letting it go, while we exiled ourselves in one another’s private world. Made only for thee.

Oh poetry, love has happened, so I guess I’ll be leaving you.

Discarded memories in our past, overlapping those without each other, as it should. Collect days in our trapping glares. The burning fireflies, ambers in the sky, fighting space with those diamond stars. Breathe smelt, sweetening kiss. It's how our thoughts connect. Maddening us. Wanting to try kiss everywhere, simultaneously. Lovers struggle continues. But it’s something to step to. The spasm between the honey and our pain. Now there’s you to hold onto, it’s you that hears me calling, now I don’t fall to self-destruct. Transacting with beauty, glowing in the heavy lushness, heartbeats. Violet links. There’s too many secret places to go. New points of discovery. Changing patterns. Sweeping motions of melodies in singing concertos, creating musings for us to inspire to and change for the better. No poet ever said the struggle for love will stop today. For now it’s just us to create for our own.

And to whatever rhetoric poem that follows us behind. Leaves dropping.

Somber side, uproared quietly, being pulled from itself-produced soil, where it had once believed that true-love never existed. Not at least outside novels, poetry, any other art, dreams, yearning or some parallel universe, where it had all teased us at some some point. Flanking thoughts, streams of constant screams, not knowing how to react, stunning. No-longer to dream in sad eyes. Come alive.

A twinge to flicker wild youth

Every thought now, mixed with emotion.

Everyday filling to overflow, romance culture, outside of poetry and new the humanity. Not to rust, not to lose. Heaven graced, Heaven fell upon. Angels as muses, simple gestures of writing poetry, where all other poems had lost their value, where they only briefly touched upon what love is, they’re missing the experience of it. Living within reality, living within forever, we’re immortal. Smile for me now. Tenors sing for praise, the dramatist plays from inspiration, the laymen left alone to be with envy and those poems turn to be directed about us. Everything I am, my personal history, to what I had worked for, valued, had all faded away and now I’m in the dream of you to live out in forever. Love now. Live now. Passion, wildness, flaring flames, pure ecstasy, loving as if forever does exist.

Gems raised in the air, beauty shown, awe in the sight of it.

Starlight shines, fireflies, moon looms around, silver glow beaming down, to enhance the scene, stars perform a ballet as some call it ‘contellsation’. I dance naked. Bearing everything to anyone who watches, I dare not stop.

Breathing to throbbing, heavy  breathes, I had finally reached the point.

Nirvana in awakening.

Now everything I touch becomes illuminating.

It’s seen in the air I breathe out

Whistle out, whispering murmurs, new poems, only lovers read. In any lover, it’s where earth performs intercourse with Heaven. Penetration to soul, sparking a takeover of the entire being. It’s when sin is forgiven. Perfume for the world

Street dreams under moonlight, content serpents around.

Across from the wild darkness, my shadow drips behind to everstep taken, immense traveling, redness, omnipotent  upon earth’s surface. Love doesn’t exist until it happens to you.

I’m alive and glistening. Never to depart

Poetry is vague outlines of humanities thoughts, breezing in the wind

Broken up and scattered

Not only in history, but in today;s thread of present moments, in hopes to parent the future

Wanting to taste freedom

Tempting feelings, heroic images, lustful presence, cults of genius

It’s hilarious to our muses

Bleeding hearts

Heavy scent, languid. Insinuating whispers of romance, articulating love.

Metamorphosis running wild, splitting all metaphysical hairs, do not ask me about my past, it was all bad, how long can a good thing last?

Endless Angels, intricate to each word to each poem, poet hopes to impress them-all

Lingering around poetic thoughts, softening anything mundane, to the point of it all being pointless, weakening outlook, turning inwards to thy inner-world

Reflections in mirrors, replica to vanishing points

Soaking in conscious dreams of hoping future romance, to destiny, it’s what life is meant to be. However heavy it may be. Lovers are going to heaven

I’m an atmosphere of paradox

Firelight, fireflies

Fallen, dawn, darkness lifted to the sky, black sun, moon replaces it,shooting stars. Burning cities. Flesh has its own temptations, like the mind. Paradise resents awareness. Eyes rolling over the Earth’s globe, theatre and drama. There’s people buying souls.

Smile for me now.

For here, my last love had died.

For wanting love, to be in love, to find meaning, success, glory, forgetting haunting taunts of the mocking time, melodramatic rising emotions, the grandeur actions shared with another. Speak of poetics, living out a Shakespearean drama. Losing my youth, lost in love. Daring to take the beauty of lover and casting it out to the night stars, so their beauty can replace the constellations. And this all makes mad? Fine. Let it be. For this will be my exile. Parting from humanity and all it’s earthly troubles, I cannot take it with my, for when I cross-over. Once in love, the pure essence of it. With another. Experienced. The plain state of human existence, is nowhere near fulfilling for me and I thought I’ll grieve. But not. I am smiling. My entire essence is the peril of my own lover. As for that, I’ll die for thee. Until than. It’s all I’m living for.  The requiem for a dream is everything but a theme to our pumping souls and no feelings from that composition besides death to every other. Subdued now, to never to find praise or blame to the outside world and it’s habbiting people. Finding and following tailored made emotions, leading us to sensations, a step closer to illumination, that is made only for us. Birthed into astounding ordinary life, poor in material, rich in character and yet lover, we created our own legends. As ending time is our disease. For if conquer each other’s hearts. Immortality will reduced to child’s play. Than the world's colours will be based on our mood.

But if you want to genuinely smile, knowing that it will never stop and any fear or insecurity will never be felt again. My dear adorer of poetry. Be brave enough to find love, to love itself and to be loved. For our soulmates are unexpected and horrifying in its first wave. It threatens to devalue everything that we had worked for, had become, too be honest, it often does. But what follows in it, forgetting future, marble molded into the present, is something embellishing on holy. And if you want to know who’ll never be in love, recite the above and they’ll respond in a-way: ‘Isn’t that beautiful idea’. Than I dare you to shame them.

Lovers will always struggle against the world and all it’s cultures.

Damned but they can use the eyes of Angels and Demons.

To feel so alive and express it, flaring up and burning behind. Maybe a flash of poetry. Maybe it’s intervention from the Muses. Poets poets poets. Do not dwell inside. Leaving parts of thoughts, feelings, parts of your own soul in your poetry, keep it all congested and open freely for those who make an effort. Storming life. Anything extra, write it in poetry. Life is tragic. See in darkness. Shaken beauty. Never to meek again. Underground stepping onto the the Earth's floor.

I am here. We are here. Colliding together for the sake of our love.