Laying in the dark surrounded by pillows and her own demons.

The abstract beauty of night drowned out by her own pathetic offbeat heart.

Afraid to speak.

She hides in a mist of false truths and forgotten dreams.

Threading the needle her subconscious viciously sews her mouth shut;

An urge rises within her, a pen is all she finds.

Vigorously grasping the pen as if her life depended on it, she plunges it deep into her throat.

Allowing the words to rush out of the wound,

In the midst of blood and ink she... finds herself.

I come up with my best ideas at 15:52 am.

After downing a handful of sleeping aids and washing them away with a swig of an energy drink.

I close my eyes, I begin to drift in and out, in and out, of sleep.

Then... it hits me, a surge of poetic thoughts, half an encyclopedia of slightly used, pre-owned words never before used to describe the inquiries of the mind.

As I begin to whisper these words they become lines, they become verses, never to be repeated again.

As soon as the whispers stop my mind has been rocked to sleep by the damnation of these short lived verses.

Why be a writer when you can be a poet?
Why tell someone you love them when you can show it?
You can write all you want and you can say all you want, but it doesn't matter if you can't have a love affair with your piece.
So let's make love and not war and not desecrate the name of peace in the name of war.
The only wars that ought the be waged are those against those who oppress.
Sadly those who oppress control the press.
This world is in distress.I am a convoluted manically depressed hyperactive mess.
I may be a nobody but my words will have an impact.
An impact on those who made a pact to protect us,
They will cower in fear at the boy with blood on his paper and ink in his heart.
AND HOW DARE THEY SAY THAT MY POETRY SHOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED ART!
I say we kickstart the next beatnik generation...
And give these kids, some true... motivation.