What poetry is this,
when all of the inspiration left with Thalia.
when my sweet sweet lovely Thea walked away.
Yet I danced on my head and lived
with Pandy and Candy.
with their lickity split throngs all of that 7 incher of a lollipop;
Must all of those pornographic description of these lustful fertile idle mind of mine.
Dwell and keep asking for something that I want so much yet I know of
such situational circumstances.
that my mind keep going on a probable cause.
Measure me 4 scores of my love encompassed
none for all these.
Age me the memories all those would left me,
what gave me. . .
nothing all the scar inside
I will scribe three years of my tragedy,
whom was there not for anyone.
whom were there to remind me of my pride.
whom can and will always acknowledge all that adversity,
and the will of the life
weilded and welded me as I am.
Among other things,
2 years to the month,
of a day divides into moments of bliss.
When I and the silly ways of craziness of my dear Bhe-bheng.
Of nights filled kissing the air which upon the bosom and
her mysterious ways, that of my beloved.
. . measure me the love of my pain.
Where it is the gain not of
the years of tears,
the months of enduring spasms,
the days unending tortured and burnt toasts,
the hours of anguished self inflicted stress,
the minutes where my nights are days
and every second this mind concieved;
among those whom I do give all.
You always betray me under your breath,
for every word you keep and telling an honest truth.
It is a well known fact, in a day it betrays my thinking.
Because you’re consistency of betrayals and trusting your eye.
I know now,
only of what pain is to me,
It is my parent that loved me.
It is a good lesson,
kept me alive,
protected me from those,
who wanted none but to gain and benefited
Pain is and was and shall ever be,
my constant sorrow,
Yes it is
His Love for me.
. . . what is poetry when
I can see nothing but blank walls
on a sheet of a paper.
. . . where is my heart if it beats
nothing but aggression and agitation and
nonstop nonsense that never ends in my mind.
. . . I can loose myself in all music that I can hear;
after an hour or so, I can not hear my life trying to cry all my life
and that miserable years of line never rewinding, only to keep going.
. . .
Have I seen you in my silence.
Did you understood my quietness of solitary isolation;
where my definition of all madness:
which resides not in your;
. . fear,
and of guilt.
Please I do beg of my mercy,
forgive me of my aggression do stem from all stress.
For my butt streched all the years of every stress.
Smile. . .
I pretended and try laugh.
I adored the cosmetic skin of yours.
Happily. . .
I wanted and loved every bit.
No matter how much I was in tormented state,
to hear your voice is the one that saves me each time.
Any second of my waking hour of the bed at night I get up;
is the only happiest time of my life.
Coz’ at least I am away from you.
. . .
Index me the age where all of my belongings,
list me all of those cutie-pies I swear,
if had the chance would’ve french my way into their eyes.
Dreams past and gone would have been,
Ambition was not mine to begin.
Love me a line of grey tones to azure skies.
my dream of mine is none.
I alone want my beloved light,
of the silliness of hers,
to be there for her:
. . .
– – –
To whom does this life belongs to,
it was always credited to the ones that knew me not,
only to bore me into a life,
may whosoever be the one bare did say,
“We brought you into this and had invested
but you will serve us willingly or unwilling.”
Then that unconditional is never there,
only in my mind.
I owe my life,
I do not.
. . .
The age of my grey hair
may be a mystery to you.
Its a statement that I have been a thinker
throughout which a life of a sinner,
one day I know I am to be respected in that
court of justice.
Facing a crime of my own intelligence.
® Artsydhude 97-19