I write to survive
and to state what's on my mind.

I do it to stay alive,
and digest what I find

in these forests who revive
me; they show me a sign

to keep going,
to keep pushing

--stay within these versatile lines,
write these words in real time.
Never erase or rewind.

(A.L.W)

People make your world
Your world is a mirage of moments
Moments are what **** you

The boy went by Samuel and the girl by Beth
He planned for his future while she awaited her death
Never a likely couple, they put romance to the test
She had cuts on her wrists and a void in her heart
Still, he thought she was gods finest work of art
There were years of love, of picnics and fun
Never would you guess their romance would be done
But he thought he could fix her, rid her of her vice
When he couldn't, he felt his love couldn't suffice
Beth's cuts were deep and Sam's patience, thin,
One more slice and his temper would give in,
She tried to stop but still resisted the change,
She found his love exceedingly strange
It couldn't be taken, and alas she cut
He began stammering in rage, screaming, "WHAT"
He ran to the shed, knowing what he'd find there
And hoisted the axe, high into the air
Sam ran her down and looked her in the eye
And brought the axe down, screaming,
"If you want to die, die"

Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****.
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.

As occasional insomniacs may know
There are certain sounds that only occur past midnight
When everything is still
They awaken…
Scuttling and skittering
along hardwood floors
Crackling, creaking
the sounds of a settling house
Tapping, rapping
from inside the walls
the sudden rush of motion
on a deserted street
someone’s chasing
always chasing
no time for sleep
Then you, enveloped in starlight
You entangled in sheets
Maybe hidden under your duvet
Maybe staring out your window
into the night