Imagine your dreams as reality,
one who crafts and shapes how their life will be.
A smith with unlimited skill,
unmatched force inside,
called the strength of ones will.
You carry a charge within you,
A powder keg of potential dreams;
Don't let all these shadows dissuade you.
Light your fuse and burst life at the seams!
There's no need to rein in adventure,
not when the company's true.
Just be sure to take stock and measure,
the loyalty of those close to you.
The message that resonates deep,
that echos within each of our souls is
have courage -- live what you dream up.
No one else can achieve your heart's goals.
There was an old man who was a crafter.
He had a son with a dream,
The son wanted to FLY.
So his dad made him wings out of bird feathers and wax.
And warned him not to fly to close to the sun.
The sun never listened and when he was by the sun,
The wax burned and the wings came off.
So he fell to his death!
What was the crafters name and what was the son's name?
Sometimes I don't feel pretty
Sometimes I don't feel thin
Sometimes I want to wash every single
Imperfection off my skin
Sometimes I feel a little dumb
That's why sometimes I wish I were smarter
But when the day is over
And the horrid exchange of thought
Turns to laughter
I know that love cannot be bought
And that I am my own crafter
Come bearer of death
oh, carrion crafter
the plains be wrought bereft
oh, we hail forever after!
Be your praise dying cries and blood
you murderer of the weak
raise your armies, a rampant flood
and with ease, crush the meek!
Sire of the end
and vanguard of sin
pray we the world never mend
and light never win!
Feel the earth beneath you're feet
Stay intact, stop the fracture
Everywhere you look there's greener pastures
Have a moment of laughter,
Appealing to no master
In this current moment
You know nothing else could matter
Peace will come full circle like the rings of saturn
You can pull yourself together when you find yourself scattered
You're destiny is malleable, and only you can be it's crafter
Oh believe me,
the innocence you find so appealing
is by no means comparable to the severity
of what hides beneath these layers of skin.
My wings may be tattered
and stained in black ink
But the ferocity of exile
still burns and blazes
within the pulsing rhythm of my heart
He calls me 'The Angel of Death'
my artist and my crafter
Who wove me within the shadows of his machine
Feeding me life
through the ink of his pen
in every way imaginable;
sprinkled in magic with a taste that can
3. a compass with which castle crafters
map their masterpieces, built from layers of
similes and metaphors and symphonies of sound,
of memories and apologies and everything bound;
4. a reel of delicate threads which
fervently await a seamstress of words to
weave them together;
*impressionable when you don’t mean it,
fleeting when you do.
the cries of the dead whisper,
through the cracks of the city-scape,
they pause...then fade,
into wailing sirens,
of deaths love march,
the dead's eyes lie,
in the avenues,
limited in height and width,
by hands of ghosts,
extending bloody hands,
to raise the crafters,
above the city wall,
separating the enlightened,
It is a world of wonder and delight
because of this love we call poetry
With sisters and brothers
and friends and lovers
and novice and poets to see
There are poems to be crafted
and humor to be laughed at
but sadness is not to be spared
With nightmares to be spoken
as they are put out in the open
and hopes and dreams are shared
We all gather together
to put down with letters
that, which makes us who we are
From near or from far
this is what we are
the crafters of poetry
He walks across skies
Footprints leaving colours behind
Slowly, steadily, only in peace
He's guiding the stars
The brightness has always followed Him
The stars are magnetic
He is called "Dazzling"
How could they resist?
They remember He named then
Every one knows where to go
Exactly where He placed them
If you let their light get in your eyes
Divinity's intimacy you'll never miss
He's The one from whom lights come
Crafter of the sun
With lights each night He paints these words
"My children, it's time to come home."
Thousands of years have passed
Yet if thousands more were to come
He'd still be leaving a light on
To bring back daughter and son