Poetry of the Soul

Poetry of the Soul

(A compilation)

Once upon an awkward time in history, Juliet Capulet had a sister Magdalene. Only Lady Capulet knew about the secret. Magdalene lived like Mary in a barn in Bethlehem, with a twist. Magdalene dealt with the seven devils while Juliet dealt with her star-crossed love affair with Romeo. When Magdalene met with her family, she added fuel to the fire. Lovers and sinners, daughters and sisters, what hath thou has, so too shall be mine.

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"Drunk and nowhere to go. The liquor called life has drowned my soul into this shit. I've lost him and even if I follow his track, I won't ever find him again. But…I would be found, instead. I drop myself upon the cold pavement, the street vacated. I don't mind the bitter air forcing into my airways as long as I stay sane tonight, yes just for tonight, I cling for mercy to be saved from a death soon coming. She's out there, I know, preying on me. I'd have to keep going, but these sore feet can hardly move anymore, my luck has left me nothing but an unheard cry for bail. I haven't intended for any of those evil done, I've done nothing wrong, they can't blame me, and I’m not guilty."

----- When Mona Kills

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When bitter resentments sweep me to hell, when all hopes of paradise disappear, I sit alone on rocks of fury; is this a present inferno which is not in the afterlife?

Time, which moves life.

Time, the essence of existence.

Time, boundless and infinite.

Time, we can only do so much.

Experience, only time can grace.

Life, only experience can create.

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I am in a rut.

I am wasting my time.

I am drifting away from my passion.

I am consistently ending up feeling lost in a world run by money.

I only wanted to live peacefully somewhere where I can just write, draw, and dream.

And another . . . bam!

Hits me hard . . . I fall.

Bam! This time, harder.

I bleed.

My grit.

Must move. Much faster. More force.

The sun beckons.

There is nothing more beautiful in art than that of suffering.

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I am not being modest; what I do is self-destruction.

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Excuse me for living.

It was an accident.

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Maybe, maybe, I'm really a lifeless pebble...

Maybe, maybe, I'm a hoax in existence...

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I hope for one thing:

For people to forget I existed, and to remember I lived.

"An artist who stops making art is committing an emotional suicide."

Yeah I did, and I've been internally dead for years. I'm sure those who know the real me realize how much I've decayed.

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How many novels have I finished creating nightly in my mind? Too many I couldn't even count. That's why I always get confused with reality when I wake up. Delusion is the after-effect of an abnormally active mental creativity.

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I'm gonna swallow the needles I used to pierce my lips.

I'm gonna need wisdom coming from another's mouth.

And those of the souls I can connect with, understand.