soul of a lost poet

October 6, 2010
Be my love the angels harp, or the devils electric guitar. be it that moon lit sky, or that shallow alley where inocent get mugged. nothing short of ethereal lay your deadly heart. aesthete i am, though I've abused oppurtunity.


Who are we, yet who is me, to this lonley world bound by "time". intricate is thine happiness. seconds become hours, with my wistful passion. the sun shines heavily on the universe which is that of my pensive prose. arthritic I become running out of ink. indifferent to the average, for my lyrics shall fear no topic. please not any ears nor eyes.


Thinking for if my mere words will matter when im 60. will they be in books and controversial worldwide? will they become forgotten and have just have been the ice i require for my sore soul at the moment.


Clear skies mock this deppression. though the moon understands, my closest friend. cache for this this hope. resting place for my insight on "our" being.


Eyes becomes just gossip for the deceitfull. tangible, shant ever be satisfaction. a faction of fiction, always and foever more. moreover, fact, i seek closure, or is it disposure. for i have been closed. now is it in the wrong for me to need disclosure?


Those who are rhetoric may not always use the alphabet in a fashion for making direct sense. mystification is the message's goal. though also hidden is the ability for words not to be bound by insufficient "meaning". the poet to make his mark on this vile existence through an indecent vast array of words. intake of every possible aspect of reality and redefine it for what could trully be a model replica of life not withheld by useless gravities some consider "fact".


Sulking in my poetry. i consider myself a sage of unthought truths.





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