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
Rebels,
without any rules
to be the real deal, and not to pretend
Possession
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
pure
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.