Not only sands and gravels
Were once more on their travels,
But gulping muddy gallons
Great boulders off their balance
Bumped heads together dully
And started down the gully.
Whole capes caked off in slices.
I felt my standpoint shaken
In the universal crisis.
But with one step backward taken
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.
Then the rain stopped and the blowing,
And the sun came out to dry me.

Don't be defined
By what you don't want to be
For you were designed
To be more than you see.

they asked...
"why do you write most when you're sad?"

it took me awhile to think.
but didn't answer.

I just started writing
then realized,
because no one will understand
if I tell them they would laugh

if i tell them of what I really feel,
the dreams and hopes, or of what person I've always wanted to be

they wouldn't understand
some would think it's nonsense and some will try to listen but it won't any make sense

because we are all in our own.

everyone are busy saving their own lives

and happy poems?

it's hard for me to take time and jot the fleeting feelings of how the flowers bloom in spring and how summer gives me the time to contemplate on an infinite waves

I just want to feel the moment, for myself.

Then I would feel better.

just like writing sad poems,

it would make me feel better.

It was summer's bleeding
whether on dried grass
or straw
or whatever you want to call it
soaking
Sweat from pouring instruments
that we would give
Hands outstretched to our counterparts
our falling stars
That gave shape to our words,
our turns, our learned behavior

Static kisses, that were such the darling fantasy
My, empty vase of colored strings instead of tapestry

You've, been, watching me.
Our hauntings seas, my gallantries.
Shining armor on my eyelids
Painted faces, flying starships
All my heartstrings into

Static kisses, that were such the darling fantasy
My, empty vase of colored strings instead of tapestry.

I heard that when you walk on past those doors
You're followed by the man that you had left
behind so long ago, when you began to notice,
Those silhoettes, those heated scents
That greet us from a hand to hold
A cheek to kiss, a face to miss.

We all adore the hopeful mountains in the distance
We all have planned our mansions in the distance
Grasp the walking stick and for an instance
Plan to have our mansion in the distance

But you and I
We were such the sudden contemplative types
Your icy eyes, the daisy type of deeper maybes, for a moment.

And let me tell you, it sort of strikes me how this conversation's been
such a smooth and gentle river stone for skipping
classes, distracted, by the way your eyes reflect so well this fire
stirring in my soul like sparks that rise up towards the sunset.

T.S. Elliot reminds me that I don't have to rhyme,
Every line,
                  or,
                      be on time, in measure,
Or attitude,
Or make sense,
Or only write when I'm depressed,
Or sad or angry.

Which is good,
Because I, (and I'm not being sarcastic),
honestly feel fine