the spirits within, are an unnatural sin

they grow, like weeds, in my flowerbed mind

We can’t help what we admire—a certain kind of cool


without any rules

to be the real deal, and not to pretend


that speaks

while they listen

their negative reactions, are their submission

to my will

because they need a master

the monsters that kill

and keep me alive

like wolves that must to be fed

I feed them all, generously

so, they don’t eat me up, from the inside

to argue, and to defend

is to disbelieve my gamble

I am dangerous, when I practice danger

My motivations, are like a cocktail of fear

the worst sin, is to question them, afraid of the hangover


or impure—

prolific is my law

passion, is a drug, that dries up

“What is the artist saying?”

“It’s not a statement, but a bed of flowers.”

“When do you know you are finished with a poem?”

“When do you know, you are finished making love?”

Without love, you have to live, like other lives

always questioning, what you do

greatness is born on its hands and feet

and walks, because it needs to

then it runs

and never stops running

the only law, is power

vulnerable and raw, like a pound of pounded flesh

How can you question your soul, when it soars into the heavens?

It might be black, but it belongs to you

let it sleep in the wind

Your wings, want you to fly

without them, you are a terrible lizard.

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