“Her aura was warm and I was a naive sunflower, leaning towards her.”

Exist so loud that even if you die tonight, your deeds illuminate like stars.

Life is a burden and death is a luxury, at last we are all dreaming to buy.

And the biggest irony is you spend a lifetime finding someone to love and then die learning how to unlove them.

I’m the ocean swaying with the harmony of your moon.

Gift him flowers and watch him blushing like even fall.

You’re breathed all over the walls of my lungs and I don’t know how to breathe you out.

Your name landed on my lips like december snow and slept there forever like a baby.

You can always wear armor of your smile as a remedy for this world full of damaged souls.

Music is a weed, we all fallen souls are high on.

Ever since I met you, love wore the shade of your eyes.

When she’s drenched in agony and soaked in pain, her smile holds the art this world is dying to learn.

Unlike our flesh and bones, our souls always share a common religion. The religion of art.

You can see heaven or earth in her pupils when she’s smiling, and happy for real.

I hope my poem touches your soul and tickles your feet. As it is a river, river of my molten heartbeats.

Death is the mercy of life on us.

Let me be a poem freely hung in your diary. Like the moon, on the night sky.

I’d wear clogs, short pants and ladies’ bracelets. I created this aura for myself.

The aura of uninvincibility has gone, if there is such a word.

A realized one sends out waves of spiritual influence in his aura, which draw many people towards him. Yet he may sit in a cave and maintain complete silence.

I think the energy I give off is quite non-confrontational. That’s something you learn from karate. Once you try to be a tough guy, you’ve got to pay up. You’ve got to prove yourself. And that’s exhausting.

The sunset on the beach, calls to her, opens your aura, and releases the power of peace in the air.

She is a woman who values the voices of her aura.

You are the sweet, soft, delicacy that delights my soul. I want to taste every part of your aura’s citrusy tang.

What you call magic is nothing more than an act of the imagination fired by the senses, then given shape by the power of your aura.