An angel sits above my head
and spreads her gentle wings over
my tormented and tireless dreams. 
The battleground that is my bed
she calmly silences, her
kisses cooling stifled screams.

My angel knows my dark inside,
for she was with me from the start.
How fitting is the irony;
She was the me I tried to hide.
But something changed within my heart,
and now my demon saves me.

A poet writes upon the heart
and sings among the shining stars,
each scribble painting portraits vast
as each mind hums and wanders past
their secret dreams and battle scars,
and turns thoughts into glorious art.

Internal convulsions occur when I
stare
    stare
        stare
at that body that people tell me is beautiful,
but all I can comprehend is that slab of undesired waste
piled up on that heap of toxic reoccurences
that I am too cowardly to face.

Why must a heart beat?

To keep a rhythmic marching time through life?
That common tempo keeping order in
our lawless world of hate and fear death.
Each heartbeat rallies troops across the globe,
a single feature shared in every life,
an army built on spirit, crying out
with every thump that we are one.

But what must hearts beat for?

To beat we mean to say 'to fight,'
and for what better cause to fight than love?
That painful pleasure wielding power both
to wreck lives and create them,
the strength it gives to those from whom it stole in battles past.
Enamoured and encased in armour,
steeled against the pain before
as drums beat faster
palms grow sweaty
the tempo quickens
gazes steady
you brace and lean in
gently
and surrender to his kiss
as he gives in to yours,
your battle won by both
as both your drums keep time in perfect synchrony
your breaths the perfect melody that keep
the perfect peace.

Your apathy walks atop my broken faith with
nonchalant animosity.

A child is our ancient world's greatest gift.
So ignorant to ignorance they drift
through life, not seeing why we war or how
we hate the heartbeat of our life, but now
we try to stifle 'childish fantasy',
not seeing peace on Earth as they can see.

A child can make an instant, lifelong friend,
a common name or age will make them spend
their years together, joined at hip and heart,
each whispered secret promising the start
of stronger bonds and brighter days,
each hand in hand, traversing life's black maze.

A child may fight you over something small,
they kick and scream and bite and swipe, but all
their conflicts can be solved with one embrace,
forgiveness instant, smiles now back in place.
No secret sourness stored within their soul,
all faults forgotten; friendships, morals whole.

A child will speak with honesty profound;
the truths they speak to you are not yet bound
by pressures of society to lie
to save themselves - the words they speak will fly
through clouds of foggy falsehoods, set you free,
and open up your eyes to let you see
     just what you are, and what you've done,
and what monstrosity you could become
if you insist on murdering their world,
for it is worth its fragile weight in gold.
Ironically, materialism tries
to **** their tender, unpolluted lives:

"It's time that you grew up. You're not a child.
Don't let these frightful fancies grow so wild.
You've got to get a job and earn
your own money, quite soon you'll learn
the adult world is not so nice; no second chance,
so wake up from this stupid, silly trance.
     No time to idly sit and daydream dear.
It's time we got this situation clear:
a life of student loans and debts await.
Your choices now affect your life-long fate.
Bad grades, you say? Well, that's so awfully sad.
But don't expect our help. You'll only add
     to costs it takes to get you lot in work.
Although, those grades will only make this worse.
Who wants to hire a failure? No one does.
So get it right first time, my pet, because
you'll be ignored and shunned and judged, although
we'll masquerade, and claim we care or know."

But what if I don't want to choose this way?
I've got a voice, but you won't hear me say
that I don't want to live my life like this.
The future you have carved for me, your bliss,
is hell for me. Why can't you realise?
This world looks better through a child's eyes.

Wake up and smell the stench you made
again, you ****** it up again.
Self deprecating, grating shame
surrounds your stupid, childish hope
that you could live in love again.
      That crushing disappointment fills
the eyes and hearts of those around
and grabs your gut and wraps it round
your beaten, broken promises
in faith and fancy cruelly drowned.
     What fooled you into thinking that
redemption was within your reach?
Who made your mindless mind so each
and every time you try to speak
you **** all over verbal bleach,
      a choking stink that makes them retch
and run from you, the grody glitch,
the thoughtless, soulless, brutish *****
that bites each hand of human help
and digs her deeper, darker ditch.

The finest mist of rain falls down
upon a grassy hilltop crest.
Far in the East, the sun is born
and gently wakes the world at rest.

A silhouetted oak stands tall,
its twisted branches hug the sky;
Beneath its bough I rest my feet
and listen to the Spring breeze sigh.

And at my side there sits a stone,
a single slab of charcoal slate
which marks the spot where once we sat
and through the sky watched comets skate.

"As Summer turns to Fall, my dear,"
you'd say, "all good things have to end."
But here I'll sit and dream with you,
my tender, dear departed friend.

Introversion gives
inspiration to conjure
pictures from the soul.

Many Jack does come-a here
in bat-light hours stumble far.
How you wander here then, Jack?
Not follow misty guiding star?

Jack all alone in darkling woods.
Why Jack elf so alone?
No Jill elf keep-a company?
Be Jack elf never Jill elf known?

Why Jack be looking sad, Jack elf?
Jack know not way to go?
What be you in your hand, Jack elf?
Why dew from eyelets flow?

Jack come with me, me know what way.
Me play-a Jack a song!
Me keep-a Jack in heart and mind!
With me Jack elf belong!

O, howled the wolf up to the starless sky,
His pain as crisp as freshly fallen snow.
The sparkle left his burning amber eye,
for she had left him pining down below.

The wind caressed him coldly, planted cool
kisses of ice upon his frosty face,
but he was nothing but a lover's fool,
and waited once again for her embrace.

For jealous Winter stole her from his gaze,
and held her closely in his clutch of cloud.
Though chill had tried to quench his heart ablaze,
his song rang out among the mountains loud:

"My love is blind, and yet my love is true,
as here I save my last heart beat for you!"