versatil

It started with the smile we spoke for a while walked the mile You work as I do too good to be true I found myself investing in you When the project was through you declared it a wrap time to lay back like a fool I took a nap When I woke I realized the trap The work was hardly real My willingness was a steal Stolen was my wealth and with it my everyday meal Our engagement surreal Your ambition conducted in stealth took for me the coming of dawn to realize how everything was gone Overwhelmed with shame couldn't even remember your name I panicked and clutched my chest felt my heart come to a stop and thought it was time t

If a siren summons me, Whether I hesitate and stay Or am swift to stray The sea will swallow me anyway.

You pursue love in many, Though your love for me is plenty. Presumably our love's as true as any. The love you see is nothing really. True love's from He Who loves freely, Willingly, Completely. As far as people go The best have come and gone. So when you pursue, or consider me, Recall their glow And love He Who gave us dawn.

I deceive myself when I would like to rest. My thoughts are whet and my heart too high in the sky. Yet if you told me my heart is on the floor and my thoughts just in my head I would be convinced for you would not have told a single lie. The cruelty of irony here is that you would not speak to me, out of fear of rendering me awake.

Do not listen to me because I've had something pretty to say. Know that I've said it in a pretty way so that it may pierce and penetrate. And for those who might hesitate may it gradually permeate. Do not pursue one prosperous in preaching yet refusing, reluctant in reaching. But if you know something we've said as true then we've given something good unto you. For every truth-teller who is not a truth-dweller a thought inked is a thought dried. So when you listen listen comfortably, for you're hearing a part of us that's long since died.

The fruit of journey is steadfast in freshness yet ripens slowly. Do not hasten to don the friction of travel. The sole of the foot grows callus and blistered. Do not fasten grudges to your heart lest they set youth and livelihood apart. With age comes damage not in vulnerability but in inability to heal. And from all that's sincere, love makes one young indeed.

If a flower blossoms only once in its lifetime does it do so so that it may be seen? Is it not beautiful by any other means? Its beauty can be neither harmed nor summed by neither civil duty nor rhyme. If it may have its moment not even a prolonged season of doom can cast aside its insurmountable state of bloom.

We are taught that love is in the game of dames. But love is in the heat of the flame. Imagination has its walls, beneath which our concept of love rises and falls. Nurture nutrition through pans and pots, heating them up through starts and stops. We let fires run wild or contained and controlled. We're in a sorry state in which we must be told the true nature of love so that our life may unfold. Humanity is the flame and love is its heat. When desires are tiled and air is sealed in low is your love and weak is your light. Make liberty tame-- by seeing through the taunts of obtuse humanly wants-- and you will burn b

The only thing that has been done, of being born of one and one, is change my mother tongue. Those subscribing to homosexuality have chosen their liberty of abandoning--when union is woven-- a love that sets us free. In being affiliated, out of blood, social unrest or in the pursuit of interest, go against the wind of pride. It creates a chasm between eyes, pitching lie against lie. In being human we are born with the inalienable right to orgasms, big bags of money, or as they say, pursue [but not achieve] happiness. It is the alien choice of putting down your pride that is a step towards living side-by-side. I am Banga

I can see it. The thing that exists behind your person. The thing that sheds no tears despite crying as it struggles to keep you afoot. And it wasn't by any measure of contact with your eyes that its message, its journey, communicated to me. It was your hair. Its density, quantity... the way it travels in the air--your air. With more wrinkles than the aging skin around it it spoke of regret. It said that at one time you--yes you--were almost beautiful. You were almost beautiful. Not for him, not for yourself, not for anything. You just were. Did life stop then? Were the three children so regrettable a thing? Regardless, here you are now, bei