I never dream't of of distant lands,
  A universe beyond our own.
Of seamless smiles and gentle hands
  A love I'd call my home.

I never thought of future folds
  Of different me's and you's
Playing roles from unique molds
  On worlds of different hue.

It's true I never pondered
  A life where we are new
Or of kingdoms and unknowns
  I never dream't till you

No matter what each Big Bang brings
  Each reality we share
No matter if it shines or stings
  For you I'm always there.

Remember the days when our shoes were stolen by the earth.
  And false Truths could only be read
   On purple stained Popsicle sticks.

When we were willingly kidnapped by the
antihero's of our Fantasy.
   And Stockholm Syndrome devoured us whole.

When false prophets graffitied their wisdom onto bathroom stalls.
   While we washed our religions down the sink.
   And our purpose along with it.

When the letters of every books pages flowed into us
   Like a torrenting river we struggled to make sense of
   But reinvented us all the same.

When we didn't believe a friends last words
    Could be spoken through a mouth in the neck.
    And the whisper we'd hear would fall victim to our failing memories.

When we met the loves our lives everyday of the passing decade.
    How our hearts shattered into countless parts.
    Yet we loved through the pieces of it all the same.

Perhaps these recollections have faded.
Perhaps they still reside here.
Or are mixed in with catalogs of fiction,
So that we can learn to make sense of all these things.

The last knight had died ungallantly
He folded in a disappointed silence
As did the age he stood for.
So long to the bygone era.

The romanticism of a stoic ideal
Remained to mark his passing,
Like an obituary in the paper
That people glance at for a brief moment
Before continueing with the idleness of their day.

The muddied sky of an industrial world
Stretched over a land like a blanket of shame
To destroy the traditions of a knight
Who once fought for the people who turned to destroy him.

I learned how to draw dragons in 3rd grade.
I did so compulsively, and voraciously because it was therapeutic.
But they loathed me, and inherited no majesty from whom they were made.
Though I loved them. And I empathyzed with what they would never be.
Because what if my creator had no plans for me.

Girl that sits on the other side of math
You're **** pretty,
And when I see you I want to say more than just "Hi"
But we're to different people, you and I.

I can tell you think I'm kinda cute
But if you recognized who I was,
You'd know why I stay mute.
Though sometimes I still want to ask, if you'll come to my place and do math homework.

Dab brought me up as a Christian.
His dad had been a preacher,
So carrying on tradition through Holy Diction
Might have been the only path he had seen.
Until Grandpa died.
And we stopped going to church
And we stopped talking about God.

There was never a catharsis.
I never had an epiphany,
But endeavored in gradual change.
And the notion of nonreligion
Was now not so strange.
I am now who I misunderstood.
I'm sorry.

Happiness is less easy to find
Is that from experience or religion or both?
Life is suddenly less kind.
But if it brought me joy, and wouldn't leave me sad,
I would start going to church,
I would talk about God,
And I would talk to my Dad.

I'm not a poet
I shouldn't claim the like
Because a poet would know more
About struggle and strife
While I myself lay my head on a bed
Some poets stay up all night
Driving home their nails
Into the coffin of conviction
How dare I say I'm impaled.
While others wrote beautifully on social issues or on love
I sit and stare at the wall
I churn out writings on things such as white struggles and heartache
I'll write about the same boy over and over again with a different ad lib.
I'll write about voices in minds I can't reach or begin to comprehend
So tell me how I'm a poet, again?
Because I can write a line and hit an enter key
I somehow think I'm a cool *** thing.
Nah man, I'm not a poet
I'm a wannabe