Why am I writing as if it’s important
Does typing count as writing
Probably not but that’s not important
What is
Is what next word I’m going to type
Will it be deep
Or simple
Or just a little dull like my recent ones
All depends
Am I a deep
Or a controversial writer
And am I a writer if I type through piece of glass.
To share my thoughts to history and publicity.
For a little encouragement to keep me busy.
As I’m going crazy with my school drama
And rambling of random things
That aren’t important for me to remember as years go by
But bothers me more than a Sunday night

I was sitting by the cross
An view of a split, filled with mist
A cross of land's moss
and the body's fist
Of water sprinkling across
There was no one else to witness
Other than the first
Of many who was jealous
Only the one with a cross
See that land had filled the body
Making it feel like Belle
Watching the Beast's life fell
The cupid's flower of choice
Grouped for nobody
And felt for the Crossed man,
A feeling of rice,
in a cooker
Ready to play a game of poker
Guessing the time of the pedals' fall.
He felt nothing but the heaven that were tall.
He picked a rose,
And looked up
He arose
To the view of the girl from the riverbed top
Ending his day with a stop
Never may he let a flower ride the brook
Of another man's crop

I ask and Take,
Fight and Break.
I Burn and pretend to be a Snake;
To get people who cry to get along.
Who tend to Sneak around.

I always wondered what concept Follows
When a child is faced with something New
What breaks a Fighter
who usually Solos
In everything he ever Knew and witnessed.
Why must he understand the Laughter
Of the crowd.

What makes some Understand,
More than civil words and calm breaths ever would.
Why must I Stand for This.
Its too hard for This child.
But it's the ability to grab another's heart.
With less words, more Actions
More physical touch, and compassion.
Less sad days, more happy Reactions.

May I give the Sad girl a happy Reaction,
And the Sad boy more Compassion.