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StateMent                 H
e       a                 Making
d       r           T    e     s
         Through    a     t
         y        Melancholy
         r            s    s     r
         i            e           You'Re
         z                                i
         e                                s
         d                               k
                                           i       R
                                        Another
                                           g      a
                                                   d
Of.

You!?.*

WanT
        o         P
                   a   My
                   i                                          Well two bad,
                   n   Portrait                         I'm not real,
                   t                                           I am a Chemical
                                                        ­                    a
                                           ­                                 o        Fee(l) you seem
                                                            ­                t         To like to Get
                                                             ­               i                           o  
                                                                ­            c                          ThoUght
                  ­                                                                 ­                            p
im nobody who is you im a piece of glass in the ocean an unexpected regret you didnt want but now you have im the kind of thing you get in a goodie bag from a party you didnt want to go to but you still did an embodiment of every reason you doubt yourself on a daily basses im the one whom sits behind the screen not watching but watchin you thats the scary part of me that you arent quite ready to leave because who will watch you if im gone

It's been a minute,
Time has been short,
And hard to come by.

But don't think I'm giving up,
On all the work you gave me,
And all the dreams we're making.

A fact is a non-arguable statement,
But a statement is defined fact,
Through observations and experimentation.

Today a fact was patented,
By the college of my love for you,
The fact is; You are beautiful, that is it.

I hate valentine's day,
Not because I hate to love.
But I hate how the pink heart holiday,
Is turning money green.

With the foolish new loves running around,
Wave a dollar in my face.
Write me a love poem for my girl!
Keep your money in your pants.
I won't take it,
How would I be if I chose to butcher art for money?

So I guess what they say is true,
The less words on this page,
The less thoughts on my face,
The less I write the better.

Let us play,
A round of the rhyming game.
I hope you'll stay,
It is quite tame.
When playing you may sit, you may lay,
And recite lines of poetic fame.
So if you will we will tie,
Together many rhymes.
Like lie, by, and my,
And enjoy sparkling water with lime.
With bread, rye.
Don't worry take your time,
There's no reason to be shy.

Perched high above the world,
Rests the poet bird.
A lost species,
Of the lonesome raven family.
Who stands among the branches,
Of the bald willow tree.

He weeps,
For lovers in London.
Split by chance,
Which took one to the heavens,
And left the other alone on the Earth.
But when his eyes dry,
Again he will fly.
With somber stories,
Tucked between his tear stained beak.

The sun rises,
With the dust.
Which blows across old acres,
Of desert sand.
Sending tumble weeds,
Straight to the oasis ponds.

It's a fragile thing,
This life.
Out here you live by the rules,
Of the man aiming a gun at your head.
It's real rough,
That's for certain.
It'll leave city spirits hurting,
But I'd rather live for the high noon,
Than some old mayor's law.

Windy winter day,
You walk alone in the white and gray.

I walk four paces far from you,
A ghost in the snow's fair ballet.

A bitter breeze blows from the west,
Interrupted by my wispy form.

Graces your rosy cheek,
And you turn to where the winds came from.

Squinting through the blinding snow,
You stare right at me.

And for a moment I think you know,
That I am here, a winter's ghost.

A poem,
Is a little story,
You write on little paper.
Sometimes it rhymes,
Sometimes it doesn't.

A poem,
Is a song,
That the singer was too hurt to sing aloud.
Sometimes it's mortal and sad,
Sometimes it's the irony of walking out of a flood thirsty.

A poem,
Is a prayer,
One that the author begs you to hear.
Sometimes it will save your soul,
Sometimes it will save another's.

A poem,
Is a gift,
So you should treat it as one.
Sometimes you will receive one,
Sometimes you won't.

A poem,
Is a curse,
So be warry if you steal one.
Sometimes it will come back to bite you,
Sometimes it will just leave you fearing the possibility it would.

A poem,
Is a poet,
And those who are poets, are poetry.
Sometimes they strive for fame,
Sometimes they leave their work in random places under random names.

A poem,
Is a call in the night,
That echoes into the ears of those who are hurting.
Sometimes it heals them,
Sometimes it guides them to healing.

A poem,
Is optional,
But those who read them won't regret.
Sometimes we can't bear to read poems,
Sometimes we can only bear to read poems.

Somebody tell the sky,
That it doesn’t have to be gray,
If it doesn’t want to anyways.

It’s awfully hard,
To rain on someone’s parade,
If the sun is shining through you.

Even when your curtain is closing,
That’s no reason for you,
To not give the best finale you can.

A weak sailor was I,
When she caught my eye.
A beautiful lass,
Straight from the sea.
Fair skin,
Just like the petals of the water lily.
With blue eyes,
The color of ocean waves.

Thin figure,
Cast a shadow on the sunny summer bay.
Boy was she pretty,
The kind of girl an old fisher,
Would call his finest catch.
Sandy hair tied back,
Elegance like a species of ancient lore.

And I guess,
The water wasn't just what she was for.
For back on shore,
The boat club dance floor,
Wasn't quiet full without her.
The way she'd move,
Like a shiny fishing lure.

Alone sits the tower's bell,
In the glow of lantern light.
Looking out at the town,
Silently gazing upon the night-fell streets.
Every day, the elders yearn to hear it ring again,
They want to hear the sound they know.
From their childhood, they remember,
What it was like to hear the bronze ring echo.
Yet, the children,
Don't have a chance to forget.

You're losing out again,
Young nephew dying on a hospital bed.
Your whole earth,
Rocked to pieces,
In minutes, just like that.

It scares me,
Just how fast this frail thing,
Life, can fall apart.
For the minute it starts beating,
There's a dagger at the heart.

I've never seen a devil cry,
But even Satan would shed a tear for this.
Free this earth,
From the clutches,
Of undeserving punishment.

Why, what could explain,
Make up for this?
I'm doubting you,
Great Creator,
How could you let this happen?

Yes you made it,
Congratulations!
How does it feel,
To be up on the big stage?

It's been a little while,
How are you?
Well if you don't have the time,
To talk you don't have to be rude.

Yes, you've made yourself very clear,
You don't need me at all.
But don't forget,
I'm the reason they saw you,
At all.

They come from the West,
Covered in ashes,
Suit cases of soot.

They call them Californians,
Nomads from the west coast.
They come from burning cities,
On bare foot.

They've got stone faces,
Hardened gazes.
I can't imagine how it must be,
To have your home,
Burned from gables,
To ground.

God bless the Californians,
Lot of lost souls from the West Coast.

I could never be a lawyer,
Not because I couldn't lie.
I can lie plenty,
Whether or not it's right.

But I couldn't stand to see,
When an innocent victim.
Gets blamed,
And there was nothing I could do,
Because the judge can't see.

That’s a reminder,
Of who I used to be.
Scars on my body,
Tell me to save my words.

“You’re too young and brash.”

It’s that big mouth of mine,
That gets me hurt.
I don’t think people,
Can take the truth today.

“You’re a bad man, you can’t save yourself.”

I chose silence,
In spite of the aggressor inside of me.
There’s nothing peaceful,
About the pacification of a fighter.

Right on 490,
The raised turn to 490 east.
There’s a hill,
And on that hill sits a lone,
Lazy Boy recliner.
Two folding chairs,
A table,
Two men,
And one sign.
“F Trump”

Boys will be boys,
Guess that’s it.

I'm not going to let you push me around.
Just because I chose to walk in peace,
Does not mean I am incapable of wielding anger.
Of which shines like a silver blade,
I am not too weak,
That I will crumble to you.
I am iron and steel,
You are wood and glass.

Do not dare make me your punching bag,
Lest I punch back.

I'm a big target,
I don't fit the mold.

Does the fact I'm self contempt,
Scare you and your self admired stature?

Just because you will give confidence for popularity,
Doesn't mean I have to.

So move on,
I won't grieve myself due to you.

Me and my uncle,
Went out to buy,
Steel sheets and computer parts.

I asked him,
"For what?"
He told me,
"Nephew, I'm sick of living in today,
We're going to build a time machine,
To escape the modern age!"

So build we did,
And **** hard we tried.
But I guess you can't escape,
The world the internet trapped you inside.

Back inside we went,
When it started to rain.
Not before dragging the time machine,
Far away.
We covered it with a tarp,
To keep it dry until the next day.

But no matter how many hours,
We poured into our project.
It turned to defect,
So I guess money will never buy happiness.
Even though when you google happy,
There's a shopping tab.

So Mr. Musk,
Don't deceive me.
My wallet will never be,
A road to happiness,
In quite the way you sold it to be.

Guess I don't need those glasses,
A cheer to me!

Well I c-n't
Type with the letter "-"
My puppy fell -sleep on it
So it might t-ke me
- minute to s-y I luv you too
Bec-use his n-se is n-w -n the "-"

Read the newspaper,
Read a book.

Scrolling through these videos,
Gives my soul a headache.

I'm just gonna make some chicken n' noodle soup,
And use a paper, or as a modern stance, pauper cook book.

Crystal tears,
Make up a diamond sea,
Where on the golden shores,
Glass roses grow.

But I picked the green weeds instead.

Sailors clubs are better than the rich ones,
We've got sails instead of super boats.
The gentlemen, (the ones we've got)
Don't drink fine wines but draft beers.

There's no sparkle of gold spoons or diamond bowls,
But still a Sailor's Club is better than a rich one.
Why? Because where else will I dance,
A Sailor's jig.

Another night I'm wasting,
According to the billionaire news letter,
Bowling with CL and JR.
A sleek new bowler's cap,
A broken in pair of bowling shoes,
I found while thrifting.
JR made a joke,
"They look like Al Capone's lost shoes."
And I guess they do,
So whether I dress like an English bartender,
Or an Italian mob boss.
That's up to you to judge,
Because I'm wearing my new bowler's cap,
My all American pool shirt,
And Al Capone's lost shoes.

I have an American diner kind of life,
Like a menu full of cheap food,
That's the best you've ever had.

A big stack of pancakes,
A slice of cherry pie,
All for $10.99.

That's how I'll keep living,
With the holes in my pockets,
And my cheap diner food.

It's a nice day in Paris,
A chilly afternoon.
At a tourist cafe,
With an Italian Painter,
Chatting about the French language.
"Why would you write about Dan's Amour?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well it's Dan's thing, seems personal to him."
"No, no, I wrote about dans amour."
"Yes that's what I said, Dan's Amour!"
Sigh

Have you considered,
AI might not be outpacing us,
We as a people,
Might just be slowing down.

Becoming more reliant,
On robotics,
That we've made so many,
Our mistakes are catching up to us.

California is getting punished,
For something unapparent.
Because they have the breath of Hell,
Burning through their front doors.
So for the love of the west coast,
Somebody save Malibu.

I'm going to finish my book,
I'm going to finish my work.
This time it will really happen,
This time it will really be read.

Here comes the camera girl,
Clumsy American beauty!
With a French hat placed upon her head lazily,
And her camera hanging from her neck.
Looking around the streets,
Photographing Paris, a way to live through scenes.

But she'll never be happy,
Just watching the people,
Who dance by the Eiffel Tower.
No, she must dance!
But alas, she has no man with which to dance,
How sad.

I sat on the rock,
With the statue of Robert Frost,
And thought.

I laid on the stone,
With the metal cutout of Emily Dickenson,
And cried.

A new morning,
At the death of an old week.
Skeleton trees reach their bony arms,
Into the see of rose gold clouds above.

Faint chimney smoke,
From a distant home.
A family who wakes,
And won't see the sky,
In the same way I do.

They will return to their beds,
In the soft clutch of tonight.
And won't stare out the window,
Into the twilight curl,
Of stars and branches weaved.

Oops!
Thought I put that in private,
Didn't mean to post it.

"I'll see you tomorrow"
I lied,
I'm going to see you next,
In my sweet dreams.

Strike me down baby,
Strike me down.
Take me to the dance floor,
Let me see the fire in your eyes.
Move with that passion,
I yearn to see.
I'll catch you if you fall,
While pouring your heart out.
So while were still young,
Move those hips.
And hit me up,
Looking good,
Looking fly,
Looking like I might just have to try,
Something crazy to be your guy.
Don't leave me hanging baby,
Your wild fire tames me.
So do the ballet,
Of the modern world,
Let me watch while you twirl.
And leave me lusting,
Once again.

I can't breathe,
I'm afraid
my life leaving me?
sick and dying
all over aga-

Reading poems from,
2013-2018,
On here is like,
Walking through the graves,
Of dead poets,
Who breathed breath,
And sang songs,
For years just like us,
But they aren't on here today,
To show us that,
They breathed breath,
And sang songs,
Before their beloved art's,
Death.

Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.

A playlist,
Music from and for the both of us.
A hangout,
Place for us to be us.
A relationship,
A way for us to love us.

If nothing matters and we all die in the end. Why can't we make what little living we have, good?

You're the harmony,
For my melody.
You're the piano,
To my singing.
Your the calm,
To my anger.
The beat,
To my rap.

Bonjour Gray Man,
What is on the menu for breakfast today?
A black coffee and a plate of blueberry jam,
On plain white bread.
A blueberry, for the blue in you,
Coffee and bread, because you find it tasty.
Gray Man of Paris,
What's here that you fancy?
What led you to leave to shaded land,
Of pencil-paper men?
Was it a secret love of bright colors,
That you look so dreary against?
Well salut Gray Man,
Enjoy breakfast in the colored land.

Power,
To,
The,
Six,
Word,
Poems.

Don't cage me,
Don't chain me,
Don't try and change me,
I am the river,
I am free.

So you can't control me,
You can know me,
But you'll never own me.

YOU WOULDN'T STEAL A WALLET!?
Then don't steal my poem,
You just stole a hard night's work from me.

For young/new writers,

                                                  The best draft of your poem is the first.

              Self doubt is the number one cause of death in poets,

                                                               So don't drown in worry.

         Swim in it calmly,
                                                      
                                                            Like a swimming pool.