What's more deadly,
a gun or a thought?
A gun gives you the opportunity,
but a thought pulls the trigger.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
I'd give you flowers
when you're feeling down.
I'd give you flowers
to remind you the beauty in life.
Even wilting flowers
have beauty,
if you chose to see it.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Welcome to our Society,
where the teens are depressed,
and the students are stressed,
where people will give you hate,
on what you wear and what's your weight,
where there's *** no hugs,
no candy, just drugs,
where we cut for an escape,
and the parents beat and ****
where laws forbid the gay,
and everything is weary or gray,
so I hope you enjoy your visit with Society,
just try not to get depressed and anxiety.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
2 a.m. is for the poets
who can't sleep
because their minds
are alive with words
for someone who's not there.
2 a.m. is for the lonely
who are in love
with the loved
but aren't loved back.
2 a.m. is not for the happy
who sleep comfortably
without a care in the world.
2 a.m. is for the broken
who lay awake
in a dark room
where the dark
is more comforting
than the light.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
The thing with a broken clock is
you can always tell
exactly
when it stopped ticking
With people it isn't so easy
and sometimes
you can't even tell
they're broken.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
I would rather travel the world,
than sit in an office.
I would rather sail the seas,
than sit in traffic.
I would rather climb mountains,
than sit in a seminar.
I would rather explore the seven wonders,
than sit in a meeting.
I would rather live life being happy,
than sit to make money.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
I'm not the person I used to be,
honestly I'll never go back.
I found a power higher that the one I knew,
one that would change everything.
After hearing hopeless prayers,
I wondered if I should even try.
But then I remembered that day,
I'll never forget.
In a dimly lit room;
In an old, creaky church,
there was a room.
Inside there was a breathtaking sight;
thousands of paper doves,
each a different color,
each a different prayer.
The darker the color of the dove,
the darker the prayer.
Almost every dove was grey or black,
But amount the few there were reds and yellows.
Even though my doubt rushes through me,
I still believe.
All of these people were like you and me.
except they handed everything over;
not to billion dollar corperations,
designer clothes,
but to the Lord.
Even though my doubt rushes through me,
I still believe.
I guess this is my prayer;
to be taken and excepted,
not laid down to rest,
but to be heard by someone who will never turn their back on me.
Even though my doubt rushes through me,
I still believe.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
My feet sank into the warm sand,
my skin, barley even tanned.
Catching a whiff of the salty breeze,
which bring back memories that send me to my knees.
Finally I am here,
the warm golden sand changed with the tide coming near.
The sun was laying down to rest,
proving tomorrow would be at its best.
The warm colors of summer rose once more,
baby blue, light pink, mellow yellow and cool orange lit up the shore.
The golden sand was no more,
and the dark sky came, oh what a bore.
But tomorrow I will return,
for the colors of summer is what I yearn.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
You know that feeling:
to be wasted on hope
and high on a dream
while low on aspiration
and loaded with doubt.
You know those thoughts:
about dreary memories
and scornful actions
with broken ideas
and frustrating decisions.
You know those worries:
about what will come
and who you'll meet
with a side of who will you be
and who you might see.
But you don't know:
that now matters the most
and the past is over
while who you are is at stake
and you can't see who you'll be.
But please, don't think you know:
that today is done
because tomorrow hasn't begun.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
What is a poet?
Is it a writer who rhymes
in perfect time
Or a person who captures a moment
like a sunset with a crisp breeze to calm the humidity
with streaks of a cool yellow, and a dimmed down orange
light pinks and wispy clouds
in the dimming light
But what is a poet?
Without a pen and paper to capture their words
or a mouth to speak them
or a mind to think them
What is a poet?
without a life
without a story
without love or misery
without pain
without smiles
Is it a tortured soul or a happy idiot?
No, a poet is a poet.
With a mind to think and a soul to speak.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC