My music rests on a page.
It plays silently.
Without a warning.
Without a sound.
Without cause.
But with feeling.
It needs only the melody of the words.
Words that play softly in tune and harmony.
They ease my mind into peace.
And continue to ring
Without sound.

Am i a Poet?
Am i just a person with an average vocabulary and some emotions?
Am i more?
Am i less?
Or am i a silly individual with a thought and a blank page?
Its the one question You can answer
And i can't.

Its the strangest thing,
That feeling i get.
The one that crawls in my skin.
The one that breaks a sweat.

It leaves so much heartbreak
In my melancholy mind.
It makes me hate life
But yet never want to die.

Its stupid,
It makes me feel like a child,
And the pain is so real,
But the scar is so mild.

It tears at my heart,
that i thought couldn't feel,
It leaves me to die,
but i don't.

Trumpets blaring
clouds parting
all staring
in a roar

He's come! He's come!
He's come again
we've too long
ached for more!

Indeed my children
I've woke again
with three years
under my belt

I've been up
and I've been down
I've been numb
and even felt

No longer a boy
of sixteen years
as my journey here
had begun

But you don't care, I have like- what?- three followers?

anyways, I'm nineteen now.

and don't bother, I'll make applause noises for myself with my mouth.