Is it death you ask for? Or is it peace?
They don't have to be the same thing, sometimes they aren't.
Is it success you ask for? Or is it happiness?
Happiness is not always success, but success is always happiness.
I promise.

Is it existence you ask for? Or is it life?
You can have a whole world to yourself, if you remember to ask yourself for it.
Is it admiration you ask for? Or is it love?
You can share a world that you made yourself, if you love enough to reveal it.

I heard a boy talking today
about a poetry contest.
He wouldn't enter
because he thought
they only wanted poetry on boring things
like suns, and trees, and stuff.
And he doesn't write that sort of poetry.
I felt bad for him, not knowing what poetry can be
until he said he wanted to enter for the first prize.
He can keep his false beliefs.

Come one! Come all!
See those who I have deemed freaks.
They are Poets, and Artists, and Writers.
Feast your eyes on those who refuse to take standardized tests!
Be amazed by those who can still us there fingers to do something other than text!
They would starve without me, your ringmaster.
They would drive themselves mad in your world.

I had a dream
that I was dead
and it hurt to move
and I moved so slowly.
The light was yellow-green
and so was my skin.
My brother was dead
than I was. He couldn't move.
Not even slowly.
My house was stripped
of its carpet and it's furniture.
My parents were there. They were dead.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
I wore white and there was blood on me.
I carried white wreaths and set them
on the hard floor.
I was hungry.
But my mouth would not move
and stomach could hold nothing.
I kneeled.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
The curtains were white
the windows were open.
I could not hear. I was numb in my head.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.
I had to get up and go down the stairs.
My eyes were dead.
It hurt to move.
And I moved so slowly.

It's hard to write a poem
and read it to someone who can not read
words for what they are not
and then try to explain it to them
in words that are what they are.
It comes across as only ink smatterings on perfect paper and a series of vowels and consonants on perfect silence.

i am not a mathmatician
so don't pretend that i am
don't make me write down endless strings of numbers that
i don't understand

do not choke me with square roots of evil
or drown me in formulas
while telling me reading music
is not a real skill
as i've noticed you can't do it
nor can the lady across the hall
you've gotten through life alright
but i haven't seen you smile once.

Math worked out for you i see.
And i grin because i can read music.

If Light had a face it would be homely
a great, cracked, bulbous, wrinkled thing
not smooth like fair Darkness
and not half as cold

If Light had a hand it wouldn't be slender
Light would not posess piano hands
Darkness is the one with hands of silver
stretched and ready to play


If Light had a past it would be harrowed
for only goodness can come from such a trial
and if Darkness was an age it would be ancient
and Light would be seven times twice as old