I don't know
   If we're supposed to float along
        On a gentle breeze
     Or on a rolling ocean
With our minds at ease
         Or if it's a little bit of both
    And you just gotta believe

But I do know one thing
  Whichever way that you choose
          Life is never very easy
  But when happiness is on the line
     You have **nothing to lose

Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart

I've spent my life in the river's ebb and flow
Some days spent fighting the current, others just floating along
But now my river has no current, and I no fight
I'm stuck in a lake now, with only my hope
Most days I hope I don't drown, others I wish I already had

This misery
Is completely consuming me
Torturing me
How can I fight this?
Can I even win this game?
Help to make my mind tame
Fulfill the righteousness
Leave behind the pettiness
But I cannot believe in happiness
When the only hearts that complete mine
Have been ripped from my arms
Placed into uncomparible harm
For an unknown length of time
The three black holes in my chest,
Where only they can be placed
Feels like they can never be refilled
And can certainly never be replaced
My life, my world, my everything
Unseen to my lost eyes
Torn right away from me
So cruelly, terribly, all to torture me
Well, it's working
I'm tortured, I'm broken, I'm burnt down
I can't give up, they will be found
I want to stay strong, I need to be brave
But this battle has become my warery grave

it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference

If you accidentally
             fall out of love,
Do you just dive
                back in head first?
           Feet first??
                     Eyes closed???
        Cannon ball????
             Or
Do you walk away
       Cause you can't swim
And you're scared to death
                   of *drowning?????

the heavy heart is a heathen
corrupter of better nature
committer of soul-treason

fueled by the miserable notion
that death is twilight
and life is dawn

to flight, to flail
to rage, to rail
to weep, to wail
to no avail

to unhope

and all of this minus the mercy