Ignorance is the gateway that will lead us to stupidity.

I'm just another note, in your symphony.
Grab me by my throat, have me trembling on my knees.
You're just a chain smoker,
I'm a Pack of Cigarettes.
I cross the line & lean over, nothing I regret.
.
You tighten the strings, make another sound.
Play a rhythm, and just keep smoking around.
And with every noise, your eyes they shine brighter.
Cause the only hand you need is the one with the lighter.
.
Now your buds are on the ground.
You wonder what went wrong?
Your chords were right, & so was the tone.
.
I knew karma, couldn't harm her.
But, this time it's going down.
Cause what goes around...
...must come back around.
- **Aks, Chainsmokers & Symphonies.

It seems I am in love
with ideas, notions,
and places I have never been.

I am in love with the idea
of forever,
of waking up beside
the one I love
everyday, until we both
cease to be.

I am in love with the notion
that there is someone
perfect for everyone,
that someday I wont
be all alone.

I am in love with the idea
of complete happiness
of being satisfied with
exactly what life hands me.

I am in love with places
that I have never been
places that I may never
get to go.
I am in love with
skylines I may never see.

I am in love with the idea
of love itself.
The notion that one can
accept someone
exactly as they are
and run away with their heart
to places neither
have ever been.

Here is a young boy,
His heart has been crushed,
His innocence has already been stolen,
By the gun in his hands.

Here is a teenager,
Death a normality,
Trusting only in hate,
For those he once loved.

Here is a young man,
Believing in revenge,
For a crime he never saw,
Against someone he never knew.

Here is a father,
"Protecting" his daughter,
Showing her the path he chose,
Putting her finger on the trigger.

Here is an old man,
Regretting his life,
Hating himself for all he did,
But all too late.

Now here is a young girl,
Who lives far away,
Who doesn't understand,
But knows she is hated.

People avoid her,
Afraid? Or unsure?
The garment on her head,
Fills her with shame.

This girl never touched a gun.

The boy did not know what he was doing.

His daughter doesn't want to ****.

But it is too late now,
Society has grasped a concept,
And it's claws dig deep,
It won't let go.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

i crave the taste
of stale cigarettes and beer
cuz it was the taste of your mouth
what happened here?

i long for
the misspelled drunk texts
that once annoyed me
phone buzzes i flinch, reflex.

i ache for
the feeling of your chest
under my head as i fall asleep
only way i could rest

i hunger for
your love
-all to myself
we never should of.