Ferociously scribbling intellectual inscriptions draped in decorative diction upon negated pages

Negated pages, buried inside a hard back journal reflecting ages and ages of poetic aspirations  

Poetry

It is my eternal reverie exposed in a perfect parallel reality

Where exclusivities bleed in the crux of my verses

Where my manifestation is a sole symbolization of rhythmical gratitude

Where adept residue lingers in the ball point of my milking pen

Where my right brain makes amends for the sake of my fellow friends and competition 

Dwindling in the whirling wind of my whimsical words and phraseology curves

Splurging metaphorical similes and edge-of-your-seat readings

Poetry

This dream, I’ve foreseen, at least a thousand times

For it incites in the sight of linguistics and artistic logistics 

For it ignites during nights overflowing with introspective insight

For it is the spite of structural writes and the likes of evolving alliteration

Singing sweetened sounds of slam sonnets submerging in sagacious stanzas

For it is the answer to career inquires and idealistic aspires

It is my desire and desperation, my inner interpretation

Poetry

As spirits of lyrical remedies unite harmoniously, it is formed and reborn in the heart of curing art

It has the power to devour vices of lifelessness, such as bigotry and blasphemy

Its hidden messages hold more transparency than glass houses of luxury

Contributing to the extremities exempt in poverty

With these idioms, idiocy will cease and ease the everlasting disease of immorality

As it infects all of humanity, digressing society

With this delicate form of art, I am capable of recharging life itself

Poetry

It is my dream