I blended poems with truth;
so homogeneous it turned;
with the color of instability,
and the density it burned,
it was the ink of my quill;
the blood in my veins;
the semen from my Venus;
the artwork among stains;
I would've painted it;
on the edges of my skin,
on the spaces of my portrait,
on the emptiness of my brain,
but it's gone -- so late;
yet it never dried,
it only deceived itself;
through my pores inside;
but the poet in me can't take;
even my solitude neglects;
its alpha-reigning force,
filled with borrowed regrets;
for I should not;
I should not be oppressed;
by the boldness of entities,
for it only do cease;
it ceases silent -- unknowlingly;
right when it's perceived,
alive with grasp of philosophy
I've never recieved;
hence, my poetry is my truth;
my liberty, not others';
'till its death, from its youth,
'tis my sovereign-built lover.
