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And so it is, that both the Devil and the angelic Spirit present us with objects of desire to awaken our power of choice. There is an invisible strength within us; when it recognizes two opposing objects of desire, it grows stronger. 
Rumi

Weeds persecute the gardens of my mind,
bad seeds are instigators for the unkind,
so, I plant vibrant petals for tomorrow,
did you know blossoms can feel sorrow?
I support them to bloom in delicate silence,
but strange paranoia is a relic of violence.
It hurts when withheld wounds are exposed,
life is better when I keep my eyes closed.
Should I apologise for my sullen demeanor,
so they can misjudge and become meaner?
I've become a misunderstood metaphor,
in a world of words not understood before.
I'm not an angelic devil nor a sinful saint,
but sense of shame is like polluted paint.
I'm tired from deadly brain sucking vampires,
draining my reservoir of peaceful empires.
Will it ever dawn upon the ignorant,
if I could turn back time it would be different.
In childhood we painted our faces on stars,
some looked for Venus, but I preferred Mars.
How we followed a colourful spectrum's shadow,
wondering if rain flows along the rainbow.
But in time imagination loses it's power,
we expire like dead seeds and forget to flower.
Is the pantomime of pain I've endured not plenty?
Can guilt bleed me dry, until all my sins empty?
Set me free from confines of jilted desire,
release me from burning in regret's bonfire.
Madness of my muse will never disown me.
In this hell I smile, as I still have my poetry.

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