Art is my melancholy

If such regards itself as dead
Then it’s most definitely alive;
The dead do not regard
And miss perceptions of life,
For the dead are, in all ways,
Dead.
Thus, if it regards itself as dead,
The perception is wronged;
While there is perception of death
There are movements of life,
And while there is perception of life
You either live, or truly believe so
Without regarding the foul truth
Of being puppets in puppeteer’s fingers.

Ezra is not the loved;

He is the broken poet from within

A sad pathetic word writer

Forever doomed to dreams.

Ezra is not the loved one,

He is but a poet.

“Hey you, yea, you in the butler gloves and tired smile,

I may not say it much, but I love you.”

-Leutwin

I adore when the likes reach unspoken numbers and when readers leave their commented marks of wonder and amazement, of how they loved it and how those words fascinate them, a long whispered “wow…” and a slight held of breath, as if poems turned air in lungs to art. I can only imagine how many unseen, hidden views of hidden lovers, sweet minds that drink of those pots of magic and literature, written so dearly.

And I adore the popularity, to see those words in every mouth and those rhymes in all lips, mumbled, whispered, a soft sound of tongues moving inside mouths and a silence of thought and universe creation, a universe of such words.

But, love, not my words, no, yours. I care not if my own grey and sad words are seen, no, I need it not. It is your art I feel pleasure of seeing in others hearts, it is your success I wish for in moments of prayer. It is you I want at the top, because, my love, nothing ever brings me such joy, nothing compares, no selfish smile, no smashing individual desire or personal life goal, no, nothing compares to your smile, as you reach the top and achieve your sky.

Some people call it no aspirations… I call it the true mad love I have for you.

Beware my red eyed friends from dark,

Your demoniacal laugh and sadism

Are nothing compared to the childish,

Innocent, cunning smile I render.

You will strive under my voodoo spell,

But eventually forever dwell,

In this warm, treacherous hell.

And whether I am the Sally

To your philosopher Linus,

Or the incomprehensible Lucy

To your artistic Schroeder,

Or even Peppermint Patty

To your plain Charlie Brown,

I’ll always be like the beagle on valentines;

Handing paper hearts to my Woodstock.

                     You  are                                Softly   ,      

               The  whispers                      A  ginger play

        All   the   lovely   songs      Of   melodic   violins

     That   one  hushed  dream  that  fills  lonely  nights

  The sound of  morning birds   against  the  slow  guitar

  All  moans  and  breaths  over  softly lost  cello strings

        You are   one   against   those  instruments  song

              Your   low   groans   fight   musical  sheets

                      And   you   become   but   music

                            In    this    magic    stage

                                  Which    is     my

                                            Heart.

                                                   But still

                                                 All is music

                                                 Your        The

                                              Voice             Piano

                                            Your               Keys

                                           Heart

                                         Beat,

                                      All is

                                Melodic

                    All is musical

              Moans and keys,

                 All is love. 

“Stick with this, darling,

I have a question to ask

And I promise it’ll be worth.

Love is much like life;

We enroll like infants,

Innocent, ignorant,

We discover what’s that

And learn to be in love;

We grow to children,

Childish, inquisitive,

We pout and demand

And want all attention;

We become teenagers,

Adventurous, sensuous,

We are oppressed by feelings

And fears and thoughts,

And all seems to crumble;

And then, we turn into adults,

Wise philosophers,

And we learn to be blind,

We learn to be deaf,

So that we are insensitive

To each other’s faults,

We only but maintain our touch,

To touch and to love,

And our voice from our lips,

To whisper I love you’s

And each nonsensical word

Can be hushed with a kiss.

And just like life, love,

There is getting old,

A soft lingering peace,

And a continuous stillness

Of calm lotus blossoms…

I realize we are young,

And the journey yet begun,

But I truly must ask you this:

Will you let our eager hearts

Visit each chapter of this book

And grow old together?”

And perhaps it is quite silly,

How strangers touch you

And your melancholic heart,

With swift, pleasant adoration.

But I find truly adorable,

To be mesmerized

By stranger simple words.

All I dare to softly whisper is

“Thank you, darling,

You are absolutely lovely”,

And hope to make such stranger

Feel as cherished as I do.