The other side of Lonely
is where words best not be spoken.
An amazing space where two can live
when both their hearts are broken.
Where money serves to be a salve
to fill the empty places.
Where Joy and Hope no longer live-
You can see it in their faces.

The Saviour, what a noble flame
Was kindled in his breast,
When hasting to Jerusalem,
He march'd before the rest.

Good will to men, and zeal for God,
His every thought engross;
He longs to be baptized with blood,
He pants to reach the cross!

With all His suffering full in view,
And woes to us unknown,
Forth to the task His spirit flew,
'Twas love that urged Him on.

Lord, we return Thee what we can:
Our hearts shall sound abroad,
Salvation to the dying Man,
And to the rising God!

And while Thy bleeding glories here
Engage our wondering eyes,
We learn our lighter cross to bear,
And hasten to the skies.

It is written
That there shall come a time when all the great poets shall be heard
It is written... by me

It is written
That there shall come a time when all the greats shall achieve their destinies
It is written... by me

It is also written
That their messages shall reach all... by air, by land
And by sea

Patience young poet, it is worth the wait
Have some faith
Think of that which you have put on paper throughout the years
Think back and appreciate your unique and creative ability to express yourself
And be proud of you
Be proud of that which you do
Young poet
You are a legend
And you know it
Ambitous young poet
It is your world
You own it
Let no one tell you otherwise
One word separates you from the others... 'wise'
This, young poet you need to realize
Work on your art
Don't compromise
Let the words express the passion they see in your eyes
Young poet
I understand and can relate with you
Young poet
Know that it is genius because you wrote it
You are a lion, not a kitten
Stand up and roar, and if they ask you why you are doing it
Tell them 'it is written'.

There is a second.
Suddenly it's two..then it doubles up to four
Before you know there's twenty more
And then another score and score.
Minutes into hours and into scalding weeks
Time is rock hot solid and time does not have leaks...
..and yet time drips away.
So long.....So long
The day that seems so long is just as quickly gone
Time like soldiers marching on
Cutting down the enemy
Which by the way is you and me.

The second hand..A marching band
Playing tunes which to our ears
Sound like the rushing past of years..
..and still the hand that sweeps the face continues on
Then.
We are gone.

A magic trick..So simple...slick
Time.
The curer of the sick that licks the wounds and heals the sores And turns the tide on timeless shores but still time pours and yet no leak.
And though I seek the answers or at least a clue..time slows for me..If not for you.
For when we age
That pounding beat..that caged in rage is tempered by another gauge.
Time the meter
Time the cheater
Time..You can't beat her.
The second hand.the minute..hour wins absolute unchallenged power
Time is the final ****
Time is and always will
Win.

How long shall I deny this frailty?
A vice it has become.
Logic assessing your value,
And pride shutting my eye.
The mirror tells me I am right,
While bluntly attesting its cold.
The warmth I eternally seek is not
Beneath its mocking polished mold.

Time has passed but I, my love,
Still holds back my step.
And time stops not and lurks around
It feeds me more regrets.
But the picture captures not just the scene,
And links my unceasing stream of chain
Stretches not from fading horizon,
It hangs me lovingly on its trail.

but it is not your fault.
You are trying your hardest to
(re)capture my attention.

And despite my slight fascination with the
curve
of
your
mouth

I still find my mind wandering through
thoughts of the last person who sat across from me
trying to conjure up a smile,

and how quickly I walked away.

The darkness consumes my every thought dragging me to the corners of my mind.
There I find the memories of days gone by, hurt that was forgotten and joy never known.
My silent torment remains silent as the screams for help echo in the hollwness of the memories I store.
why won't they help me? Cant they hear me cry for someone to save me from myself, from that monster that haunts when I am unguarded and weak. That monster that stole my innocence that stole my childhood, and it wasn't alone as most monster aren't. God help the child trapped in this wretched soul for it is damaged and broken.
To repair a soul, a mind is almost impossible for you can't recover what was lost in a sea of darkess and fear. Forgivness would be a start to finding peace ost would say, but that is an elusive response to the evil that lurks in my memories, and futile to seek that which does not come.
I know the Lord has forgiven me for my past and sin, but I am not so easily persuaded to forive such hurt and betrayal of innocenece. The monster that brought the evil upon me is the worste some would say, but I beg to differ seeing the unknowing accomplice (those with the power to help but not the courage) the worste evil of them all and never worthy of forgivenenss.