that's when your thoughts **** you. it's raining, and the white noise is wrapped up around your soul, leaving you cold even without touching the raindrops. you stare at blank space without even blinking once. and when you do, a clap of thunder echoes in the distance, and the raining gets harder. it's as if your horrible thoughts are directly proportional to the strong downpour of the metaphorical tears you've been keeping in for so long. that's when you pull the trigger -- when all you hear is the rain and the words you almost said, but never did, making you feel like you have a fish bone stuck in your throat. the raining gets harder and harder, but you think twice about it because you can't tell the difference between the sound of your heart breaking and the sound of angry rain collapsing on your roof.

and then it all stops. it all stops, but your hope is dwindling. it stops, but you don't see things the same way ever again. you're alive, but you feel more dead than ever. that's when you know your thoughts have killed you.

What can you expect?
Poetry comes from the heart.
And the heart is vulnerable.

We live in a world of lost souls and unfulfilled dreams.
Poetry just helps us stay here physically
Because we cant always be here mentally, emotionally,or spiritually.
Poetry is the reason i'm still alive.

There once was a town in the world.
In this little town, lived a girl.
She barely could write,
But sat up all night.
Carefully carving each word.

The poem she wrote was a dream.
A thought that had grown, it'd seem.
The frailest of strands;
Words woven by hands.
Like droplets of diamond
Downstream.

The morning sun shone on the stairs.
He sat there, his face holding tears.
Her father, and all
That little girl called
Her family, burdened with fears.

She sat down beside the poor man.
Put paper inside his strong hand.
She left him to read,
As if sowing a seed.
And so, the whole healing began.

Her words had a life of their own.
Of wisdom beyond any known.
They spoke of a place
That was floating in space,
Yet it's beings were far from alone.

Why cry when there's laughter?  
Why fight when there's dance?
Why hate when there's family,
Fun and romance?

Her words were so simple, so clean.
Yet painted in colours unseen  
Through verses and lines,
And symbols and signs...
To adults, elders, infants and teens.

It took not religion, it seems.
No army, no guns or machines.
To shape this old world
To the words of a girl
With paper, a pen... and a dream.