Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

The adding of poems to collections?
They often come in nearly
Endless clusters.

Excessive repetition is
Flattering to nothing.

Its not fair to the reader.
It's not fair to the poem.

An imperfect gentleman's gentleness isn't always so gentle. Women walk around with an ideal idealist mental of a man. A man that's ****** but **** good at building a dam over the damnedest dirt road. Some day those roads fall apart and the dammed will depart with no heart until a renaissance  period breaks through with art. So the man paints a picture of the women's heart severed in pieces ripped up like a jigsaw puzzle. He will spend his life stuck in this painting with the patience to put it back together forever with no avail he failed. She's moved on and he's back to being a gentleman pledged by an hour glass.

-angel torruella

Be my Hero, my protector.
  The one I can run to when
     I need a shoulder to cry on.
Be my Hero, my lover.
  The one who's name I call
    when I'm alone in this dark world.
Be my Hero, my bright light
  The one that makes my day
    brighter with just one smile.
Be my Hero, my knight in shining armor.

I bit open a lie and it tasted like you.

This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.

Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth

Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.

It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.

The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:  
It is perfectly free.

In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.