Do not elevate each other to Gods,
place each other on pedestals
claiming goodness only
and beautiful soul
without the means to harm.
Do we not know that
every light contains a dark?

Walled hearts befallen of tragedy
perhaps need more love than most.

Steal my words away,
in cryptic ways they have
always been yours.
And while the wave of yesterdays
fall upon me,
and I gather my courage,
you'll slip away like you do.
Let me know in what ways
I cling too strongly;
please don't leave as
everyone else has.
I cannot stand the absences
I leave in myself.
My knees have been sore lately,
begging, pleading
for my own forgiveness.
I will not (cannot) cleave
if unwelcome,
so send me away to feel
soft sand and sharp shells
while I sift myself in
oceans blue.
You'll discover stars alone
within and across and above
regardless,
so I beg of you,
if only for a little while,
stay.

It's a wide open art,
from the start.
Rules are for schools.
Dont fret em,
forget em.
So
Relax with a syntax,
clown around,
with a pronoun.
Squeeze the ******,
of a dangling participle.

Free flying like geese,
creative words release,
make it up if you please.
Example--the plural of mice is meese.

Flowery language isn't the exclusive domain of the professional writer, it's for everyone!
To continue then,
about the writers pen.
No write or wrong,
nothings too short or long.
Mangled,
bungled,
butchered,
bumbled, don't matter.
We don't need a librarian to admire what we have done.

Words aren't hard,
fling them unbarred.
It's not arithmetic,
or teaching a cat a trick.
Crunch them uniting,
mix them combining.
Fling them,
meld them,
Verb them,
sell them.
We don't need a New York Times best seller to enjoy the art of writing.

Uncrate it,
create it.
Use it,
and abuse it.
Don't bar us
from a thesaurus
Or a dictionary.
The spiel
is to write real
tell the tale
seal the deal.
WORD HATERS live in the town called Fictionary.

How many times do I have to regress
and regret all the times
I've faltered?
Should I relive and revive all
my sins and wrongs,
create and shape my own private hell?
Is it not what I deserve?
To bury the past in shallow graves
so the rain may reveal
the skeletons of my loves past
yet never gone -
what of the dirt on my hands?
Is it not plain to see the time
I've spent digging holes within?
How long do I continue digging -
until the soil beneath my nails
turns to blood in clenched fist?
Can I keep looking to the past
to reveal the ways of my future,
or is it in this present moment I am
to seek and see answers?
What words should I etch on tombstone
to harken what it is I cannot say?
To what spirits and lords above
and gods below should I
shovel so many final resting places,
and to which of these I've dug
is mine own grave?