Step up to the mic and strike first with a smile of one liners, with observations or tales that beguile them.
For a smile will disable them while your lines slide in behind them, almost whispering, selecting the sharp-soft phrases that will best penetrate those guarded places. Looking with innocence into their faces, turning minds stage by stages, persuading with insights, with stories of real life, with familiar tales of familiar strife. Then when you follow through and strike with the punch line they have no defence and have no time to decline the good sense found in this food for thought, laughing to a sudden realised stop, looking again at their lives, with a furtive smile of dawning delight at the shed light on shared lives found in your soft amplified lines.
- Do it right when you step up to the mic and you just might change lives.

Are you the type that'd rather know how they'd die



or when they will.

Or will you just look at me crazy like you usually do when I talk like this
and then just look away
trying to hide the possibility of you

already having an answer.
Having already contemplated on the subject for some time now.

Freedom is not money, but an open heart
that allows one to celebrate life...
the abundance inside everything.

Every like,
love, response, repost
and poem that trends
makes me feel gifted

It borns a smile within
and more fuel to write.

It creates freedom in heart.
as I whisper gratitude
to all those who read my work.

I woke up,
at 1 am,
my mind,
immediatly plagued,
chaotic thoughts came to play,
deppresing ones also festered,
what can I say?
a troubled thought,
for a troubled guy,
how do I endure,
these consistent nights of woe?
At 1 am,
I think of you,
and suddenly,
the thoughts vanished,
with your stare,
and with your laugh,
my mind,
found peace.

Touch me,
it doesn't matter where
and it doesnt matter how
I need to know I'm still alive
so someone touch me now
Shake my hand and say hello
or pat me on the back
kiss me on the cheek
that I may feel this sense I lack
slap my face and pull my hair
make me bleed I just don't care
dig your nails into my skin
so I can feed this need within
I've been numb for such a time
that even pain would be sublime
so touch me, touch me now
I don't care where, I don't care how

The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

You made it
onto my paper
from
in between my ribs
to
in between my lines
&
all I can do
is sharpen my pencil
every time
I reach the end
of each stanza

Maybe, poets write because they have unstable feelings.
Maybe, poets write at 2am, in order to ease it.
Maybe, poets write to contain their feelings in to it.
Maybe, poets write *hopelessly.
Maybe, poets write at 2am hopelessly hoping, that, someone, on the other side of the earth, someone is awake to read the poem.

*And maybe someone awake, maybe, to care.

Lying down to rest
Resting comfy on tree leaves
The sun falls to sleep