Words with ink
         Have not gotten me far
    They may have
            touched souls
   But they've left
              on my heart
      An unshakable scar
                 Cut up
            and bruised
A flaming meteoroid
       Calling itself a
    shooting star
Yet nothing more
     Than a
        disinegrating rock
Falling too far
         These
     words I rhyme
Simply show my only value
              Through this
I know
          where you are
      Falling from space
Into nothingness
            My shooting star
     Finally a remedy
           Healing
     the brokenness
               Of a
            love from afar


                  it


           **FADES

I hope this chicken scratch doesn't come off as pretentious but my train of thoughts run off the tracks

I seriously don't know where my thoughts go sometimes are they in my head or simply a neuronic flash in a greater mind

Am I high? Or am I simply breathing what life intakes or is it even possible to raise and warn those participating of the stakes.

Wow that was some of the most pretentious **** I think I've ever jotted down to throw let's go...

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

As I sit in darkness
Talking to my heart

I'm trying to help it
From beating only pain

It sometimes skips a beat
That makes me think

Is it a bad thing or is it
Part of God's work

As my heart is always beating
It is my only living friend

Where my conscience is my worst enemy where I have no friends

As I live in pain
Trying to clear my thoughts

Asking my heart
Where shall I start

Should I cut myself and bleed you dry
I know my heart and it would only die

Should I shake you or forsake you
Should I cry or should I die

Should I believe in that man
That man in the sky

I've read 1000 upon 1000 of poems
Where I see not many write about God

I challenge you all, to write about God.

In your own words and you can scream it out loud

In the beginning

It started with Adam and Eve.
There was then Noah, follewed by Moses.

They have,
Psalm,
Proverb's,
Ecclesiates,
Songs of Solomon
Is poetry about life

Along with the rest of the old testament

Disciple's,
Apostle's,
Major and Minor Prophet's
Along with the history of God

Now to the new testament
Where we have the following

Letters to the church
Along with the gospals
Where Jesus speaks to you
And you see how he lived
With his words of silence

Now we have Revalations
What a strange place
So many creatures
That will **** the human race

Me, I'm by far not Godly
I curse and I sin
I desire flesh of women
But I try to live his ways

I know many things
About our God
I do read the bible
And sometimes out loud

Yes, I have been reborn
Still figuring it out

But I'm one of God's creatures
And that's without a doubt

You think you know me, watch this.

There's a common misconception
when I tell people I have depression,
that I should be pitied or treated like glass,
like it makes me weak and unable.
Sometimes it ***** and my world caves in,
I don't know how to go on
and I can't seem to breathe.
There's something they don't realize,
I wouldn't change it for the world,
each day is a celebration of being alive,
of pain, and air, love and just even surviving.
Depression can make you weak
but it also makes me strong
and I love it, and me for that.