There is an artist,
A thoughtful painter.
He's called a master
By his followers.
Critcs say that he has
Made some of the most
Beautiful
Magnificent
Fantastic
Pieces in the world.

Now
He will do it again.

He stands before
A white canvas
Set on his lucky easel,
Rapping his brush
Lightly against his head.
As he studied the space,
The off white void
Challenging him to fill it.

For three days he sits
And three nights he lays
Staring at the white
Two foot by three foot
Blank rectangle
Until he decides
On what will be
His greatest
Masterpiece.

For three days
And thee nights,
He holds the bursh
As he paints a scene
Of grey people
On grey landscapes
Going about their
Grey business.
Doing what grey
People normally do.

On the last day,
He looks at his work,
A portrait of the truth
And inner workings
Of the whole word
On a single Canvas.

And he smiles contentedly.
Rarely does he compliment
His own artwork,
But believe
That his piece must
The finest to be made.

Yes

It was a pretty piece,
But it had smudges here
And blotches there.
Most unnoticible
To the less wary eye.
But I see them
And I mourn to think
That someone
Ruined the pefection
Of a white canvas.

The world is gray.
She can be cold,
Harsh, indifferent.
She will hurt you
In more ways than
You could possibly
Ever imagine.
She will tear you down
When you're high.
She will bury you
When you're down.
She will let you freeze
Starve and waste away.

In the end,
The world will hold
The smoking gun
As she fires the
Bullet into your brain.

The beauty of it all
Is that none of it
Matters. Period.
When the world is harsh,
You can be happy.
When the world is mad,
You can have peace
When the world is grim,
You can be hopeful

Becuase
Before it's all over
You will see little
Miracles made daily.
You will see challenges
Being constantly overcome.
You will meet wonderful people.
And with them, you'll create
The amost amzing magics.

The beauty of it all
Is that we can always
See beauty where it's
Hard to find.

Out in the streets
The machine guns rattle
And the mortats explode
Like som sick conductos
Idea of a drumline.
Rattattat Boom Rattattat
The young rebels play
With their fireworks
While I drink my wine
In the safety of
The corner cafe.

Tonight,
I thought about you
My dear old enemy
And of how long its been
Since we were ther at the
Starting line of this war
That still limps toward the finish.
And already we have left
Our mark upon each other.
You have your scars,
And I have mine.
We've both grown old
From waging our battles.

Yet we still fight on,
And that's what's amazing.
Neither of us has given up
And I respect you for it.
My rival, to you I say.
You are my brother.
You understand the pain
Of the wounds I've felt.
You understand the goal
I strive so hard to reach.
We are brothers by
The blood we spilt
From one another.

I sit in this cafe
Sipping wine with pastries
Lettling the younglings play
Their most dangerous games,
And I raise my cup
To you my brother enemy.
Though one of us must fall,
I hope we'll get along
In our many lives to come.
I pray for you brother
Who follows the same goddess.

The waiter arrives
With the check in hand.
I look it over
And tell her it's wrong.
"Can't you see
I was eating
With my frined?
This should read two
Not just one."
She looks me over
And bids me farewell.
"Be careful now,
There's blood out there."
I assure her that
I know well of this.

What pain it must be
To be one of two
When two were one
And the other is done
Leaving one as one half
Not even a whole.

There's not much left
When you're not complete
When the rest of you
Has departed from sight.
You are useless then,
When  you are the other part
To the missing piece.

No wonder he cries
In the night for his brother
No wonder he waits alone
For the one that won't come.
No wonder he cannot
Give up on his hopes
He'd have nothing if he did.

At least there's some good
Lucky, he's not an outcast.

That pain, I hope to never know.
If all is together, uniformly one,
Then to be left out
Is to have never existed.
To be one divided by all
Is less than one over infinity.

I understand what it is
To be one half or one third
But if I was one
Divided by the world.
If I was the last one left,
I think I'd prefer death.

Tap, Tap… Tap, Tap
Morse code at its finest
Each time pencil drops
A resounding click is made
Marking letters and words
With sound’s punctuation
Click, click… click, click

I wonder what it means
The code the pencils use
To communicate their thoughts
Does the pencil shout
About its abuse and misuse
Or does it cheer
For guiding hand and beauty made

What does it feel for me
It knows me as I am
Through the love poems
And the angry words
Does it agree with what I say
With what is in my soul
No matter, it’s still my closest friend

The pencil knows my confusion
But with each “tap, click”
We whisk the fogs away
With each line we write
We feel more free.

Little bird, little bird
Stuck in your cage
Why do you want the sky
There are storm clouds out there
With thunder and lightning
And Hunters fire upon you
Shooting you down where you fly
With anger and hate
The world’s a dangerous place
For little birds to fly around
You’re safer in the cage

Field mouse, field mouse
Why do you run
I do not wish to harm
Just that the cat’s loose
And I want to protect you
And call you mine
People lay down their traps
They wish for you dead
I will not grant their morbid wants
I love you field mouse
Please stay with me

Beating heart, beating heart
Pounding in my chest
Why must you make a racket
Be quiet and still
You are driving me mad
What’s wrong with being subjected
When it is just by me
I let you run a while ago
And now it is time to rest
My beating heart, slow down a bit
Before you give us away

Let’s play dress up
You and Me
Wearing our masks
And pretending to be
A different person
Than whom we are
A fighter, a coward
Nothing’s too far
For us to mock
Just to keep the fools
All under lock