Why ask why I like your poem? Be courageous in your ideas and ideals. Be confident enough to know that your work is true to your vision. Artists of all kinds, but especially poets, are the philosophers and prophets of their generation. A revelation does not passive-aggressively seek to be worthy. It just is. Revelators, in the converse, often are compelled to seek praise with false humility via the age old pretentious depreciation of the value of their work in order to reap praise, which is the expected polite response. It is a waltz I choose to sit out. I feel it is less than honest and a disrespect to the poet and the poem to revel in such frivolity. Write for the sake of revelation, not for the accolades of topical praise. It is no business of the poet why a poem strykes chords with a reader. Simply allow it to happen. Talent and truth are not always equatable, nor are beauty and integrity always comparable. In the heart, a poet knows he is a poet. By the very construct of your words, Poet, may you be the caster of many spells. Thank-you for sharing a bit of yourself with me. I bid thee Love and Light.

I’ve never met someone
Who could breathe life into me
And take my breath away
At the same exact time
Then I met you

They gave him a gun,
One bullet
His paratrooper chute
And one cigarette
Also words of advice,
(Stay behind the trench)

Just enough for dying!!!!

My voice,
It cannot be silenced
I will write,
I will sing,
I will do anything to set me apart
From what I'm "Supposed to be"
Because normal is boring.
I don't want to be,
I refuse to be another face in the crowd,
I want to touch people with my actions,
With my words.
When I die
I don't want to be 6 feet under ground
With a face nobody will remember
And no difference made.

It would make sense
If joy
Were toenails

Because
Joy is small
You don't really notice it
Until it's gone
The same is true of toenails

Also,
If you are hiking
Too long
And too hard
Your toenails
Will actually fall off

The same is true of joy

This is why,
It would make sense if
Joy were toenails

two fragile hearts made up of glass
everyone could see right through them both
only they themselves couldn't see the reality

both fell for each other
and whatever falls
will end up breaking

now those two once-glass hearts
shattered into a million emotional pieces

now those two once-glass hearts
will never find their missing parts

now those two once-glass hearts
have turned into nothing
but back into crushed sand

In my youth
I was quick to anger
and destroy anything,
everything that stood
before me.

The sickness followed me.
Convinced inside, slithered
an evil and cynical mind.
My twisted self was buried
in the depths of me.

Only to feel a lose,
of what was my whole being.
Years longing, craving
the madness.
Tossing and turning
willing to give up all that
I was or would be,
to free this fiendish friend.

No one wants to be
good by nature.
To say I'm human,
then simultaneously
I desire the other side
of the light.

One sided, we are not whole.
It is our duty to consult
both our angels,
and demons.

The other day,
a man driving on the wrong side of the road
crashed into a pick up truck, killing himself instantly.
It reminds me of how you'll leave.
Lately, I've found myself drifting onto the left lane
and it makes me wonder about all of the people
that have died this way,
if they just couldn't tell their left from their right
or if they, too, were trying to go back to the past.