I was born with my eyes turned inward.

Poetry, playing with your words until you breathe life into them.

In this life at least,Our fate is rarely epic.Maybe just as well,Impervious heroes we are not…

In that wounded place,buried betweenmy ribs and letting go,I miss you.

And in the ocean I will fly to the bottomless pit of darkness

History repeats itself. Someone says this.History throws its shadow over beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.history is the little man in a brown suit trying to define...

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

The searing light of morningAsks unwelcome questions,Fragile hopes soon blistered by daylight.

I can’t love anymore.Except for you…I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Don’t be afraid of Pain. Pain only comes down to a certain point… beyond that, it can’t reach you and the love you have inside.

There’s two ways to become a famous Poet, find that one person that knows somebody, that knows somebody, that knows somebody.Or die trying

nothing is lifelesswhen the moon writes its screedon the silvern sand silence-From the poem:”The Universe In Blossom

A hallowed frequency withinThat, even in your darkest hour,You can always turn to.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

in the beginning was the Word,” John writes, and perhaps part of what that means is that until there is a word, there can be no beginning. Frederick Buechner, A Room Called Remember, in an...

On Paper*some call it poetrybut it is just painon paper_____________________rassool jibraeel snyman (c) 2015″The Poetic Assassin

REMEMBER HER- sudden wind come through your open window a silent wave fall inside of room you run to catch your curtain and she is not in that room—– remember her a little you are...

We must daily speak positivity into our life’s surrounding ourselves with God fearing people along our journey, helping to lead us towards prosperity & the Promise Land.

In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in...

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

Unless you are silent, you will notknow your urgent heart, how it beatsbetween the thin skin of yes and no.

The beautiful you is not the color of your skinOr the texture of your hair.The beautiful you is not how tall or short you areThe beautiful you is not rather you’re skinny or overweight by...

I love being able to see an un-written future.

Contemporary poets got so obscure that poetry kind of fell out of favor,

You exalt me Bati,This is the message to the society,Brightest day demands struggling, suffering and sacrifice,heroic labor would suffice.

I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

The work of great poetry is to aid us to become free artists ourselves…The art of reading poetry is an authentic training in the augmentation of consciousness, perhaps the most authentic of healthy modes.

The day came when she discovered sex, sensuality, and literature; she said, ‘I submit! Let my life be henceforth ruled by poetry. Let me reign as the queen of my dreams until I become nothing...

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.

what if you get most of what the eye sees?what if love came in seeds?what if we plant them and they grow trees? what if they form hearts instead of leafs?what if hate was to...

It is something to have gazed on the constellated white, felt it running from the eyes and the pores: the salt of love. It is something to have whispered wild thank-yous in the only ways...

Careful.The fall is quick,steep,and permanent.

We’re shadows! of naught – living, dying! for what’s not.

Imperfection is my ticket, perfection is my pursuit

Through windows,in wishing wells,whispering in the wind…that’s where I find you.

I don’t feel strong anymoreI feel like falling to my knees.Things aren’t the way they were before,They’re not the way they’re supposed to be.

Broken.As I search for hope,In the same eyesI lost it.

What do you do when the alienating silence deafens your ‘bootless cries’?

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

I yearn to make these scars disappearAnd to forget about the past.To throw away all of my fearsAnd to be happy at last.

Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.

Keep Moving…Move forwardLet go Give inDecideand just DoProgress every dayAnd make one step forward no matter what’s in your wayKeep moving, till one day you wake up and you’re there.

Perfection”Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind.Every star-thistle has a thorn.Every flower has a blemish.Every wave washes back upon itself.Every ocean embraces a storm.Every raindrop falls with precision.Every slithering snail leaves its silver...

I balance you on the end of my pen.Teetering between loveand letting go.

This is where I belong, burning in these flames. For everything I have done wrong, I know I am to blame.

I need to work on me.The mewithout you.

Fuck I hate fucksWho think they’re so fucking greatThey know everything about fucking,When they’re just fucking fucks fucking!And no one changes the fucking worldWhen they keep fucking to another fuck’s fuck.

And as this creation itself is poetry, so its creators were poets; and language was the instrument of their art

Bridge burned from end to end,and I don’t miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI’ve birthed freedom.

What am I to do?What is my destiny?I have no idea, not a clueFeeling lost and empty.What is my dream?What is my future?I beg thee to listen to me,I beg thee to answer.