People have always admired

How I always see

the positive side

How brave and strong am I

And my never ending

hopeful side

But inside my mind

thoughts

everyone didn't know

If I didn't do it myself

Who would do it for me?

Talking flowers and tables set for tea. A garden of white roses painted red. Theres a billow of smoke hiding mushrooms of plenty coming from a well feed cataipiler. A grin without a cat and a hatter without a hat and a rabbit that is never on time. Theres a house in the distance thats home to a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve but is actually quite mean and girl that feels quite lost in it all.

It's a world full of nonsense, curisoty and where the impossible can take place. A world I wish to visit one day.

Your poetry is poison

Your poison is poetry

It is intended to kill

It is designed to revive

I am at loss of words

Yet I find them all

When I am intoxicated by it

I feel I’m dying while alive

You say how come poetry is poison

If poison is something bad?

I’d say poetry is poison as venomous as love

For love is something to die for

Yet love is toxic cliche

But what else can Men say

If there is only passion behind every

Spasm of lust, spasms as those of venom

Preparing your body to die.

Your poetry is venom

Paralyzing my heart

Giving me asphyxiation

That I cannot stand

You are life

You are death

A black rose in Winter

White Ashes in Spring

You burning ice!

You soothing fire!

Tell me what was my mistake!

Tell me what I did right!

You never speak

For the fumes inside your mouth

Kill

They kill with poisoned darts

Die! Live! Suffer! Enjoy!

I do not know if my mistake

Was to kiss your Poetry book

Or was it right to read it?

I just remember I died the day I kissed you

And now I live infected with your poison

Dying every instant.

DA 2015

they say that home is where the heart is, but what if heart is just a figment of the imagination of the needy, and what if love is inexistent and inconsequential?

they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but what if the soul is just a made-up term that allows people to justify chemical imbalances called "feelings," and eyes are simply clusters of cells that mean nothing more than blue or brown or green or hazel?

they say that it's what's underneath the surface that counts, that judging a book by its over is inconsiderate, but what if underneath the layer of skin there are just more layers, and beneath those, just organs and veins and vessels?