Scrutinize my eye’s,
look upon my body,
like it’s some kind of prize…
That temptation,
which elicits such elation,
Is the straw I draw…
from your last sensation.
I am not the body,
to which you may rob me…
of my self respect,
because this temple I’ve kept,
is the closest you’ll ever be to the Godly.
Mine is the body that mimics the earth,
yours is the body in which the seed is dispersed,
I am life – not to be seen as some kind of curse,
this stigma of your aggression must now be reversed.

Original Draft



How the days turn into strays,
shadows of themselves,
concept art,
refusing to lay where we stay.
This moment…
it flickers,
a shade of a future so potent.
Attempt to grab the flame,
and you’ll be ridiculed with fame,
do and you won’t be the same,
because it will leave a mark of the one not afraid to play this life’s game.

Poetry is…

What is…
but a rhythmic persistence,
of something magnificent.
There is no written scripture,
in which to make this pursuit simpler,
emotion is the key to unlock beauty much richer.
By simply taking a breath,
this constant pursuit to avoid death,
we create the art,
that all our hearts search without rest.
It is that beauty,
I allow…
to always rule me,
to keep in line,
these words of mine,
to give reason why the sun will always shine.

Self Adaptation

Having writing dysfunctions,
laid in conjunction,
with my revolving life conundrums.
As long as I can remember,
my pen and pad would guide my imagination,
this would set the stage for my internal alleviation.
Now its not so simple,
age gets you faded,
as the mind you once had, now becomes jaded.
You grow old,
and life gives you momentum,
but little did you know,
those ideas you had,
you’ve condemned them.
Whether you’ve followed your dream,
or it’s yet to be seen,
how often do you ask yourself,
what does it all mean?
This is the question in truth,
received fortunately by our youth,
give yourself time to grow,
don’t rush,
allow your true self to finally come into view.