.
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...

Perfect time,
Perfect place.

Perfect rhyme,
Perfect pace.

Perfect chime,
Perfect phrase -

To describe perfect days.

When the light goes out at night, what do you see? Most people see darkness, black shades or shadows of objects in the room.

I see fear. I see what can go bump in the night, the things that leave your hair up on end and your goose bumps on your body.

I see what could grab you and torture you till suns first light. I see the future of one hundred possibilities come to life in a matter of minutes.

Yes you could say I sleep with the light on, it eases my senses. I sleep with a fan on to **** any sound rumbling outside my door. I do grip my pillow tight and have slept with on eye open as a child.

These nightmares dont just happen at night, I see them without closing my eyes. I see them as I drive down the road in daylight. I see them out with friends and movie theaters.

I must ignore the sight to get through my day, such like the hulk is always mad but learns when to turn, I am always scared and seeing the darkness but know when to block it and see reality.

Soon my mind will eat me alive, golfed in a world of fear and torture. As my fingers twitch and legs shake, the madness will paint brush strokes on paper and please other people in their own fantasy land, while i write it will be a cry for help....

He falls from my thoughts like
autumn leaves from the trees;
dancing away on a bitter wind.

I survive the winter, easy to ignore bare branches
whispering of ghosts buried shallow
in the cracked and frozen ground.

I continue; I forget to regret as
the dark nights draw in
whilst I thaw out.

No fear of green here, nor of light
bringing colour to what I now
admit I have lost.

But, even so, as the earth twists on its axis
thought of him still will flower;
loathe to grow back as the sun shines.

There were times
When I loved Tomorrows
Than Todays
But when those Tomorrows have become Todays
And had become Yesterdays,

I no longer crave for Tomorrows
And the lust for Todays are long gone.
I jut live in the traces of Yesterdays.

Is there any other concept than the above said
In Space-Time?
If Yes'
I'm on my way to  the TIME-MACHINE!

I've given up writing December.
I swear I tried, but these lines
don't seem to care; The drugs never work.
The haze of blinking eyes and wasted time
feels like infinity. I want to misremember
those wide eyed faces and your smirk
when you said you were mine. (Words like knives.)
I knew it was fatal as soon as you whispered that lie.
I swear... I've given up this December.
My words can't dig up the dirt
to bury these Winter memories
and these lonely goodbyes...