Underlining the main point.
Striking words to a page.

It's troublesome when,
One has no rage.

The trouble with poetry is,
One with stanzas united.
Going in rhythm,
With the sound of a heart beat.

Beating down the rhythm,
Of a Skull's drum.

The trouble with poetry is,
One life corrupt,
In a demise.

When the sword strikes stone,
Igniting a fire.

One heart, One soul,
Encrypting each poem.
It's troublesome,
When one has no soul.

We are outcasts
Children born into dark
We listen to music that relates to us
We try to stand up and make our mark

Everyone thinks we cut
Or that we are depressed
They joke around and say mean things
Think we worship Satan and try to bless

But that's not who we are
That's not all we do
We cry, and laugh
We can love too

Yes, we may cut
And we may want to cry
But all you think we do is
Wish that we could die

on the spin of a coin
a turning left instead of right
bumping of seeming coincidence
the hand of love insisted
knitted together a plan for good
and you rose from the ashes

branches, flowers and fruits
they dont weigh me down
the soil has been my mother
my roots are soaked in brown

summer burnt me over
winter stripped me down
monsoon was my lover
almost always out of town

time it passed so quickly
from the day i was once sown
yes i did wonder sometimes
reasons for which i was born

years turned and twisted me
but i still wear my crown
i am bent but not fallen
is that why you axe me now

The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring,
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say,
Such such were the joys
When we all girls & boys.
In our youth time were seen,
On the Echoing Green.

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers.
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest.
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.