I am the lightning
I bring the rain
I am your sorrow
I am your pain
I am far away
but I'm right here

Sometimes inspiration is free
Other-times it costs you the world
In our abandon we seek
Divinity, eternity
And often the meaning
Of our words
Eludes even us
Are we an author?
A seeker?
A valiant warrior
Braving the darkness
Seeking for such elusiveness
It sets the mind free
Within that darkness
Lies the eternal
A place without form
A castle, a dungeon
And for the unwise
A prison without end
And only those
Well acquainted
With their own madness
May tread its murky waters
To pluck that fruit
Whose shape is an omnipresent
Kaleidoscope of meanings
And to solidify its form
And cast it onto sprawling page
This is our work
Our bottomless pit
Our greatest weakness
And our ultimate triumph.

-----

Reformatted version:

Sometimes inspiration is free
other-times it costs you the world
In our abandon we seek
Divinity, eternity
And often the meaning of our words
eludes even us
Are we an author?
A seeker?
A valiant warrior braving the darkness
seeking for such elusiveness
It sets the mind free
within that darkness lies the eternal
a place without form
a castle, a dungeon
and for the unwise, a prison without end
And only those well acquainted
with their own madness
may tread its murky waters
To pluck that fruit
whose shape is an omnipresent kaleidoscope of meanings
and to solidify its form
and cast it onto sprawling page
This is our work
our bottomless pit
our greatest weakness
and our ultimate triumph.

What becomes of me
when nothing remains
my god
it's happening again
close your eyes

I stumble over myself
in the darkness of mind
and I perceive myself
as I am, as I am not

I am he
he is they
they are we
and I am nothing
but the sum of my parts

Ideas take shape
they form,
they split
and I am overcome
I am --
countless parts
moving in unison

I am he
he is they
they are we
we are she
she is I
and I am no longer--
alone in the dark.

People are not happy, so am I.
When you feel you have a great and wonderful life,
they tell you that you don't,
and ruin your day become a part.

You have to grow with a **** life
and people who are not happy always arounds you.
They are you sometimes in others.

You can't be changed by people.
But they always go wherever you go.

People are not happy, so am I.
A modern society life wants you to be like them.
But you are not people who are not happy,
so am I.

A small bit of hope
found in the most awkward
of ways
I'm contented
in my contempt
beside myself in asides
and I fan the flames of beauty
sometimes the words hang loosely
they appear thinly veiled in my mind
and yet, I question just whom writes the words
I feel that I've never written
a single poem in my life
I wonder just from whom
all the beautiful words flow
perhaps talent, or skill, or luck
or maybe just maybe, a spirit
who is all too happy
to use these idle hands.
Today the words won't come, easily
And, well, sometimes
I throw up my hands in defeat
because this poem is really terrible.