There are billions of others just like me no matter which night.
We all offer the same thing, we all give off that light.
But should I go and let my fire die
there'll still be those that notice and wonder, why?

Because I'm one in a billion, and I'm still your favourite star.
Light years from your world, but to you that's not very far.
Because when the night drops down with darkness,
you know your sky will not be starless.
We all give off the same kind of light,
but you think that I stand out as bright.

The truth is that I shine for you,
because when I feel dark,
you help me pull through.

You are one in a billion here on Earth,
but your heart is what determines your worth.
From where I stand its easy to see,
that your heart burns as bright as can be.

Your whiskey lips
are haunting me
with words of
what if
and what could be.

The dream of us may be more damaging I fear,
than where life has lead us to my dear.
I steer clear from your gaze for all the ways
they make me feel like old days;

scared, insecure, miserable,
happy.

"I just want one kiss",
a trip into bliss that you'll miss.
But your phantom lips have left me aching
from the past that we have been making.
And that pain has got me breaking.
Daydreaming a life from which I'm waking.

Back to reality,
a life cast in duality.
The world stripped of sensuality but revisited at night.
A happiness best taken in sips, and although I've woken, my heart rips
because I can still
feel
your
lips.

Am I crazy?
Past all hazy.
My memory being lazy.
Is everything so black and white,
the difference between wrong or right.

You're a test of my sanity,
between dreams and reality.
I see butterfly wings,
rain clouds in may and other things.
The longer I stare, the further I tear.
You're here,
you're there,
you're everywhere.
Every blotch of ink makes me sink.
Every page of paper, another link.
Your smile,
your wink,
my addictive drink.
Bring me to the brink of insanity before I blink and I'm left inside my head to think.

Where does poetry come from?

Does it come from a series of events that have left physical and mental scars on us? Is it the emotions of everyday life escaping from our souls and into words for us to try and make sense of it all? Are they just pretty rhymes and ideas sparking the fires of our imaginations?

I have used it as an escape from the pains of a failing family. Words written where the writer weeps for answers to how and why. My words were raw, uncontrolled emotions becoming stronger and stronger as each day passed by. I've written out rhymes asking why I am alive, why am I the only guy who can see that the fire in my eye has burnt out. These words were my voice; my way to scream and shout. To cast away the lies and doubt. There was a point where placing words on paper was the best poetry I could write; but the soul has no limits, and I can break free of this height.
Up and away, there'd come a day where I may say I am a poet.
A person who writes poems.
A person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.

He lives through me.
He speaks to me.
He is a part of me.

He is on a different plane, whispering thoughts into my head.

They don't need me.
I don't belong here.
I am wrong, and
I long to be corrected.

He pushes these things onto me and I understand because it is Him.
His wishes and His desires must be met on a whim.
When my light shines too bright, He persuades the world to dim.

For every breath I take, He is the exhale; strangling me passively.
His whispers are the knife pushed up against my life.
Every word, a concluding phrase;
I LOVE YOU,
I LOVE YOU,
good-bye.
Completely unsatisfied until I've heard Him and have died.

He holds my hand gently, and pulls me down hard.
Guides me towards that beautiful, shining light;
The 4:08 train.

The Devil knows my name, and with it feeds me shame.
As the light begins to leave my eyes, I know that I have lived through lies.
All the words and evil things He said, were steps in every move He's led.
As I danced with the Devil inside my head, I knew that all I've loved was dread.

I can't tell if I am dreaming,
or if I'm already dead.

When the cool crisp rush of air hits your warm face, through your nostrils
That's the sensation
For a quick sensation
Is it worth it to get frost bite?
To have your heart turned black ?
What must you do to make it turn gold
Like the beautiful foliage of rust yellow leaves
Placed beneath your feet.
You know all of this will disappear when the heavens will cry and winter will come.
The white sprinkle of innocence will cover the ground
Leaving you will a clear state of mind
But these colours confuse you,
When the cool crisp rush of air hits your warm face.

If you were dead or still alive,
living happy or torn apart;
to me, nothing really matters.
You left my body, stole my heart.

The one you lent to me
wouldn't give me blood,
wouldn't dam these thoughts,
couldn't stop this flood.

Thoughts and feelings of you
I figured I had forgot,
Brought back from a poke
That felt more like a shot.

The noiseless beating of a heart
that I knew was never there,
drove my mind so **** apart
trying to find out what is fair

This wooden curse you've given me
will not beat or let me breathe.
I must free my life from you,
with everything that we've been through.
Live my life without a heart.
Let things go back to the start.

I threw it back into nature,
where it should forever be;
In the hopes this borrowed heart
would someday grow into a tree.

And when that tree reaches up
and it grabs hold of the sky,
I'll ******* chop that ***** down,
watch it suffer there and die.