I cry to the wind.
I cry to the stillness.
I cry to the night
begging for forgiveness.

I feel goosebumps on my skin
with anticipation of letting you in.
Deep inside for one short dose
only temporary so no one knows.

In the mood to blow out but never in
All day I take in and never give what I think
To a world that will only do what I say when said.
I must speak for myself, but refuse to listen
I’ve listened for years and never heard a sound so beautiful
As the voices in my head.
But I don’t know I’m crazy, if you listen,
I’m as right as I think I am.
Why would I search for a more right?
Why not live in my own head where everyone loves my thoughts
No objections, no wrong answers, a pool of blissful communication.
I produce plenty of mistakes to learn from,
And introduce formalities to myself that I appeal.
To pour my conscience into a river of words,
Steering with the thought of what sounds right.
To the people that spend lives decoding
An artists’ wild heart, who also crave
For a stream of light, that gleams
Correct to the eyes of you, dear lover
Of reading crap poems,
Because you don’t understand .
But you call it art, with a wondering thought
Of if other eyes don’t understand it the way you do.

Writing is a feeling cannot be put down in words,
Write whatever and hope
Or hope and release what feels writer
Write then look, lead with a writer thought
Look at what you right, write where it hits the spot

Legends are undeniable. Love is indescribable.
To describe the feeling of legendary love
Is like counting every of one of his breathes
And making that many reasons to love another like him.
To spend your living days loving others enough
For them to love your loves.
To make enough loves for your loves loving days end.
To feed them loves well after you cannot love anymore.
I can feel your love in every face I meet
Because I know you loved them.
You loved them enough for them to love me
And to love my loves.
A never-ending river of loving you’ve created
To making sure your loves are loved
Well after your loving days end

If we can relate to people does that make them my relative?
If they are related but don’t relate, are we related at all?
Does the measure of family start at shared sorrows?
Related to the same burdens we all carry,
And sharing the weight of our pain so it seems lighter.

Do painless hearts have a voice too?
Where is the untortured artist?
yearning to have their voice be heard
Or are they the ones looking to be beaten
Because something has it out for them
They have a story they are meant to tell but
Cannot be told until they have lasted the pain
That is spiraling in a match makers brain
Building the bridge between the pained and painless
Where innocent minds drink and the triggered get triggered
And the passengers finally have a place to pour their pain
Without dumping it on others that don’t deserve it
We can hand it to the next victim,
A guideline of self -sabotage
Where we first sat to learn how to take pain.