the music has questions and answers… to ignore, it blabbed out intense, last night, a dreamy choir its resting voice that loves respiring all my clime, it dove into my life, politely to savor my evil mind so, thru my gaze's navel and the navel of my soul, i've could sense its touch, guiding its groovy form evoked, its smile's chalice stole me a noble moan, magicking me to be much happier than day before

my writings are growling, are snoring are joking, are laughing, are singing, are dancing; their compositions tame you and savage you, discolor you and color you, you… to swim frenglishly; my writings are by fixation a phenomenon, are your hot friends, aren't like a drug; are the drug; each text is sacred, it's inviting you to get naughty, abstractly to frame me …on your dreams' shelf

at times, as a writer, you're screwed  if your words ramble without climax paralyzed into a marginal symptom the main characteristic of your spirit corresponds to a muse whose tariff is billed in polyandry or polygamy's art for you know, y'know so bloody well, art never reacts to monogamy's coin, and chic words' silhouette, cultivates

I am the writer of my life. Each year is a chapter. Shutting is an enigma. You think you know me for you leafed a few pages at a… some ergodic hour? Dear, my life is a comedy. I am the single protagonist. Every wink is a mystery. Some might be not, nor even a background appearance. Ignore their noise. Worth it. Even the sun and the moon reacts at how warmly or icy I am, while rain admires at how freshly or stormy is me, again. I've been conjugated by love and I conjugate love still. I made bad choices and likely, I'll do it still. I frown and laugh. You think you know me, just cos I am the poet of this poetry.  Dear, stop doing what you do. Don't make me laugh so muchly.

till I finalize my hello, you're at home, while some didn't leave yet like an empirical kind, wind down, and look, to convince yourself in the shelter of the art you can phrase dégagé, [I long to feel your love]

his love heard stones' language moaning for his lady's fingers weren't an ordinary quality kind on the contrary, the ogled ones the ruby chose the thumb and blue topaz, the index finger amethyst chose the middle one and the pearl leaped on the pinkie the diamond was already soulful on her… justifiably finger

some have the aptitude to make up your eyes in a disappointing color and some others think that your smoky eyes is a new chic tendency some of them slept, ate, and bathed, in your home, while some just goggled some make you believe they are best friends, until their enmity wakes you up and you wash your eyes, and you change your home, and (again), you get born

To tell me you love me isn't enough. You must phrase yourself in action. Your mind's burden must be just me to soothe my catastrophic thoughts. I'm your paranormal powers' magnet. My restless heart acquires your love. Feed me with each viable happiness. This will delimit you… and define you. Your hunch will be eyes' pearl's bijou. It'll incite philosophers to perform art. It'll mastermind angels and demons amid eros and agape in time's infinity.

I'll never stop to release you, on the contrary, I will be squeezing you cruelly with my mind inside my being as nobody there to save you. You'll feel me as if you'd be a con, so deeply captivated & neglected by my bohemian love.

you, the one who knows I love you beyond presence, beyond absence, stop having doubts about my vibe I have the scent of you, lined on me, the happiness is meowing on my lips, love moans, this time feels different … you, the one who knows I love you right from the threshold of dreams, I have in my eyes, passion's rhythm the smile of my lust, it kisses hungry, it bursts out with its seducing potion privileging your nerves in my nerves … you, the one who knows i love you beyond presence, beyond absence, stop having doubts about my vibe … [forever, it's just you, and I, beyond]