Discovered a new
"poet", Diksha Patel, a
master plagiarist.

The day will never be forgotten
In the hearts of those who loved him
It was a normal day
In the heart of the young man
Who was later to be guided by his own destiny

The light blue Vauxhaul stands unscathed
As the dismantled scooter lies in its grave
Its rider lies in lands unknown
His spirit lives on in the eyes
Of those who have known

The darkest day arrives
Look upon the shadowy mist of their eyes
His Mother, Father, Brothers & Sisters
Did not foresee or dare to believe
That one so young, could die so cruel

Out of life he wanted not much
Just the feeling of certainty, security and love
His girlfriend of so long
Once shared these hopes with him
But now she stands pondering oh distant memories

His younger brother tries so disparingly
To shake off his tears of sadness
But his fondness and memories of him,
Beat hard in his shock filled heart
He shares with those who new him best
The joys and sorrows of his past

Twenty years is not long enough for man
To fulfill his dreams
He has foreseen so indearly
Too cruel to take away such life, hope and heart
Look upon the shattered faces of those around
Brings sadness to the hearts
Of those who knew him not

To say that he will be forgotten is scorned upon
His life, spirit and soul
Is engraved in the hearts of those who knew him
Mark Frederick Hitchen now lies peacefully in his own tranquility of solitude

And as we always remember
To live in the hearts we leave behind
Is not to die
His spirit listens intently

To think that no-one will ever harm him again
But we love and miss him all the same

Rest In Peace

At night we were a fresco 
painted by an astronaut, our 
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory 
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.

Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Bright lights echoed through voids they leave behind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Born of old dust, born of a mothers son,
Born fated to repeat a mortal grind,
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,

One sparking flame igniting dreams anon,
Defying darkness drawn to drowned the mind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Bright stars that brightly burn oft' seem alone
Where lesser lights eclipsed are hard to find;
Old stars shine on long after life is gone.

Old stars must end when all their days are done,
But light once shone goes on to raze the blind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

From dust to dust, from ash to ash, they shone
With fiery hearts fanned by a gift divined:
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

It's not a hobby. Be prepared to give your life to it.
Read, read, read: The more poetry you read now,
the better your's will become.
Don't quit your day job. No one ever got rich writing poetry.
If you are seeking fame or to get laid,
there are obviously easier methods.
Ignore criticism, unless it is useful, and even then be wary.
Consider: Your feelings do not constitute the universe;
your love life may not be all that interesting.
Write every day. Don't wait for the Muse.
She is a fickle ***** prone to take random vacations.
Forget originality. It will paralyze you.
Write like a ******. That's what poets are.
Look forward to embarrassing yourself.
Say it in the fewest, best words.
Nothing is easy. Be prepared to burn for it.
Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.

~mce

When Poe leaves Kingdom and hails the sea
And absence wins to ecstasy
Seraphs dwindle in their clouds
Never minding Annabelle Lee.

When Cummings follows floating bells
And someones and everyones reap their tells,
spring winter autumn summer
the snow of children swells and swells.

When Rosetti ventures in the day,
and golden hair shows not one grey.
Sisters wander, sisters stray
And can't keep Goblin fruit away.

When Frost forgets to watch the trail
And takes the worn path most preferred.
Keeps walking til his footsteps fail
The leaves are trodden, black, stale,
The road not taken, undisturbed.

When I wonder what poets say
When they turn their truths away
And venture into the unknown,
Do they leave well enough, alone?

In company sedated under someone else's skin
I try to find the door through which my body wandered in
There won't be any roaming for my shadow left to do
I've seen what I created in a mirror made of you
It's here I know my spirit has been broken many times
Competing with the vessels that are present in my mind
We take our own emotions and expose them to our thoughts
Make everything indifferent to the cause of all the rot
I'm very much aware of where the balances are off
But choose to put aside the very things at which I scoff
There's no one in existence who can comprehend the fight
The battles that we face when we shut out the source of light
It's somewhere on the outskirts of the darkness we explore
Where demons turn to people who are swallowed up in war
The prisoners and fighters were once friends until they spoke
Of massacres they plotted that caused one of them to choke
I'm not here to admire those who pass away to shake
The core of who I am because they couldn't stay awake
Such ****** in the hearts of those who want to have it all
I tried to comprehend it but their pride is just a wall
Forgive them in the name of every power that they seek
'Cause even they will bow to simple truths they cannot speak